In His Eyes

by shylo

(started 04/12/98)

As Maralisa glanced at the clock again, a shudder ran through her. Each second that ticked off was one second closer to the time she had to go out there. She was terrified. It was her first day back.

*I’m not ready* she screamed in her mind.

*It’s too soon*

Nervously, she drew in a deep breath and tried to keep from hyperventilating.

*Calm. . . I have to be calm. I’m Mara, the Unflappable! * she chanted to herself, saying her mantra, repeating the words that had gotten her through five years of trauma center shifts. It wasn’t working this time though. The air was suddenly too thick, the room too small. Her eyes dropped from the clock to the floor. Speckled white tiles swirled as tears blurred her vision. The patterns melted like one of those Magic Eye posters that her college roommate had been so wild about. As her eyes unfocused, her mind drifted back. . .

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<<begin flashback---

Maralisa and her coworkers had jokingly dubbed the trauma room ‘The Shanghai Sauna and Blood Bath’ a parody of a massage parlor with questionable business practices in Chinatown. That is where they got most of their ‘business’. While the other hospitals got gang bangers from ‘Little Italy’ and the low income projects, Chinatown was all theirs. It seemed as though some drug lord was always trying to move in and someone else was always trying to stop him. The battles usually involved copious amounts of lead and blood. . .and the victims always ended up at the SS&BB on Saturday graveyard shift.

That particular Saturday had been a rough one--the shift from Hell. There hadn’t been a moment to catch a cup of too-old coffee, a second to answer nature’s call, an instant to regain what little sanity each of them possessed. Maralisa couldn’t remember a busier night since she had taken the job. It had started with a little old store owner shot during a holdup and ended with that cop from the 101st.

Mr. Wu had a small mom and pop grocery on the corner not far from the hospital. Mara stopped by there a lot after shift, in the morning, on her way to home and sleep. His coffee was always fresh, hot, and didn’t smell of antiseptic and pain. She didn’t need the caffeine just before she went to bed as the sun came up, but she needed the conversation. Mr. Wu looked to be a million years old--or at least 65. It was so hard to tell with his thin white hair and lined face. His eyes shone with the wisdom of years and danced with the joy of life. He was forever trying to get her to meet his friend Caine’s son.

"You would make a good match. Both of you are wind that must move to exist. You would like him, Mara, he’s one handsome guy. He needs a woman like you to keep him in line." he would tease endlessly.

"If he’s so great, why isn’t he taken already?" Mara would tease back. "Don’t you know what they say, ‘All the good ones are taken.’" The two of them would laugh and say good night as Mara headed for home five blocks away. The walk from the hospital to home seemed endless some mornings, but it allowed her to unwind.

She never really felt like she belonged at her apartment. It was a cold cave where she ate and tried to sleep, a place she went until she could return to the hospital the following night. It did not comfort her, or need her, or really want her.

Each morning she arrived at its dark door, shed her clothes and collapsed, exhausted, on the bed. Still sleep wouldn’t come. The haunted visions of what she had seen during the previous shift always kept her tossing and turning long after she should have drifted off and slept. Then, finally, when sleep did claim her, the nightmares began.

Each new night she had to force herself awake, to get out of bed. They needed her. He needed her. They would die without her. He would die without her. She had to save them. . .she had to save him. . .but who would save her? Every night the blood ran more freely, the patients called a little louder, she felt a little more helpless. It didn’t matter that she was doing the best she could, her best wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t good enough! She lived in fear that she would be found out.

She hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t prepared herself, to see that gentle man with the laughing eyes and the thin white hair to come into the ER. He was covered in blood, a paramedic straddling him on the gurney as they wheeled it in, trying to force a heartbeat from his frail chest. The paramedic, Tyler, a new guy, was cursing as he counted, getting angry because the old man refused to live.

"Damn it,. . .1. . .& . . .2. . .come back. . .3. . .&. . ." he almost snarled. This would be his first one. He had been with the unit only two months, and had not lost a patient. The old man’s face would be with him forever, but it would not be the last face to haunt him.

Mara had been taking vitals and history on a lower GI pain that had walked in, waited her turn, and would now wait some more. As she saw the gurney being wheeled by her, every fiber of her being wanted to drop the clipboard, grab some 4X4 gauze and rush to Mr. Wu’s side. She wanted to staunch the red tide that seeped into the white sheet on the cart and dripped onto the floor. She didn’t. . .She did her job. She continued to take notes on the patient who would once again be moved to the back of the line for the doctor’s attention. Still, her attention did wander to the Trauma Room. She listened patiently as the lower GI filled her in on past and present pains, watching the hurried movements of the team through the door window. Not once did she falter in her assigned task. She didn’t even allow herself a moment to catch a sobbing breath when she heard the doctor ask for the time, so that it could be recorded on the death certificate. She was a professional--tears would have to wait. . .they always had to wait.

Four stabbings, a myocardial infarction, and three stomach pains later, Mara was called to assist on the case that would be her proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. The ambulance siren wailed a little louder, it seemed, when they brought in this one. The paramedics had called ahead for reservations, a standing joke among the ER crew. When they had one that was going south in a hurry, the crew usually called to notify the team to be ready. This one was a cop, the hospital crew had been told when the paramedic relayed vitals. He was a detective from the 101st in Chinatown. The nurse manning the radio assured the paramedics that everything would be set up in Trauma One.

A pretty blonde woman ran alongside the gurney as Tyler and his partner unloaded it then wheeled it in. They headed straight for the Trauma Rooms. Mara caught the woman by the shoulders and held her tightly, steering her toward the waiting area.

"But , he’s my partner. He saved my life!" the woman cried, not looking at her. The blond never let her eyes leave the man on the gurney, stared at him long after the paramedics had turned into Trauma One and the doors swung shut behind them. The woman had a tale of violence painted on her clothes in her partner’s blood.

"You can’t help him in there. You’ll only be in the way. Let the doctors do their stuff. " Mara spoke the stock phrases to her, then left her there, tears streaming down her already ruined makeup. The nurse was needed far more in "The Room".

The blonde’s partner was in his late twenties, or early thirties. It was hard to tell with an oxygen mask over his face and his chest covered in red. The paramedic that had cursed over Mr. Wu was crying as he kept pressure on two thick blood soaked bandages. His clothes were soaked in the blood of the man he was trying so hard to keep alive. The rookie paramedic was offering up deals to God not to let him lose another one, not tonight. The odds didn’t look good for acceptance of the deal.

***

Dr. Meeksa was gowned up and ready to go. The doctor listened to Jenson, Tyler’s more experienced partner, give a rapid rundown on the young man’s injuries.

Mara heard Dale grumble under his breath, "Damn it, Peter, why in the Hell don’t you learn to duck." It was obvious that he knew and liked the man on the table.

Not wasting a moment, the whole team moved to staunch the flow of blood even as they helped shift him from the gurney to the table. Their patient turned over to someone else, Tyler and Jenson gathered their equipment and got out of the room. All the while Tyler was thanking God that the patient had survived long enough to be transferred to the doctor’s care.

The young man’s shirt had been cut open to expose his chest. There wasn’t much exposed, however, because what wasn’t caked in blood was plastered with red bandages. It looked like there were two separate sources of precious life fluid, maybe more. Maralisa worked as the Dr. barked orders, drawing blood for typing and matching. She had to wipe the vials on her scrubs, the precious red fluid was everywhere. She gave the vials to Kefin, the intern, and sent him on a dash to the blood bank. This one was going to need a big withdrawl.

Mara worked on autopilot, doing exactly what the doctor requested, anticipating his requests, helping when needed and getting the hell out of the way when she wasn’t. It was just like any other trauma until she moved to calm the patient . He had regained consciousness about half way through the process and had begun fighting the doctors and nurses. This wasn’t too uncommon. Pain had a funny effect on a lot of people. Mara had to wonder about the source of his strength. By his appearance, she guessed that the young cop should be near death. He managed to half rise with two doctors holding him down, though, before they got the restraints on him. He fought, even after, trying to get free of the bindings.

"Mara, for God’s sake, get him calmed down." Dr. Meeksa yelled to her. By that time, the oxygen mask was gone, replaced by an endotracheal tube. The nearly unconscious detective seemed determined to get the tube out.

Maralisa had a reputation among the staff as something of an ‘animal tamer’. Whenever they had a "difficult" patient, she seemed to be able to get them to listen to reason and relax. Mara moved to the patient’s head, brushed his sweat-soaked hair from his eyes, and took his face firmly in her hands.

"Easy, guy. Take it easy. We are just trying to help you. You’re in a hospital." she said in her most soothing voice, whispering into his ear. She spoke to him calmly, trying to get him to look at her and not at the carnage that was his chest. He continued to resist but his efforts grew weaker and weaker. He finally stopped fighting and looked up at her . . .right into her soul. His eyes burned a hole through the fog of pain and looked at her with a clarity she never saw in that room. Mara tried to turn away, break contact, but couldn’t. The eyes were so familiar. She knew them from someplace as if they belonged to someone from her past. A memory, long buried, surfaced unbidden. A series of scenes, as if from a silent movie, played out in the depths of green. The images were too real, they had plagued not only her dreams but her every waking moment for as long as she could remember. Now they were playing from the eyes of a stranger. Those electric hazel eyes would haunt her nightmares for an eternity. The room swam. She heard nothing , felt nothing, saw nothing except his eyes, pleading with her to help him. He calmed and took a gasping breath. His eyes lost their pleading quality. It seemed to Maralisa that a bright light entered them, as if a secret had been revealed to him. Just as suddenly as the connection was formed, it was broken. His eyelids slammed shut as he grimaced in pain, then his face went lax. Mara’s mind reeled and her stomach leaped into her throat. She saw nothing around her, heard only her heart beating frantically.

"We’re losing him, damn it, get the paddles" a voice broke into her thoughts as awareness slammed her back into the room of pain and blood. She stepped back automatically upon hearing Dr. Meeksa call "Clear" and disappeared into oblivion as blackness swallowed her up. . .. --end flashback>>

[end part 1]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 2 by shylo

Maralisa was yanked back into the present when the door to the break room swung open and Dale Meeksa strolled in, on his way to the coffee pot. He looked at her, smiled and reached out to touch her shoulder.

"Good to have you back, Mara. We’ve needed a good lion-tamer a couple of times. Missed ya." Short, sweet, to the point-- that was Dale. He never missed a clue as to the health of his patients, a symptom that would help him treat the wretched masses that streamed into the trauma center, but he never saw those around him. He viewed them as tools to help him save lives-- never saw THEM--that made him safe. He had not once noticed in five years that Mara was not alive, that her soul had been wounded even before her first dying patient and had expired with Mr. Wu. His keen eye for detail had not seen the flat line on her heart monitor as she stepped into Trauma One the last time. Each time one of her patients died, she had taken personal responsibility, blamed herself for not being able to keep them alive. Each death was another stone weighing her down with guilt. Her sin of ineptitude had remained a secret, though. Dr. Meeksa saw what Dr. Meeksa needed--a caring, competent nurse who anticipated his needs and helped him save lives. Those hazel eyes had seen, though, they knew.

****

" . . .. your vacation?" Dale’s voice faded back into her conscious thought. She looked up at him from her cup of coffee.

"I’m sorry, Dale, my mind was still in Tahoe. What did you say?" she asked, covering for her lack of concentration.

"I asked how the vacation was. Two weeks of unpolluted mountain air must have been Heaven."

Pure Hell was more like it. After her "episode" in the Trauma Room, her supervisor called her into the office and told her that she needed to take time off. She had 30 days of vacation coming, plus five years of sick days built up. ‘Go on vacation’ were the orders she was given. No more double shifts for a while, no more covering for other nurses who wanted to take some time, no more living at the trauma center.

*How can I?* her mind screamed, *they will die without me. I have to be there to save them.*

She didn’t speak, though, merely nodded and left the office. Her travel agent made the plans, and within two days she was tossing and turning in a motel room in Nevada.

Sleep came no easier on vacation than it did in the haunted cave she called an apartment. At least at work, she could be there when she was needed. She could put her finger in the hole in the dike and stop the blood of the city from leaking out onto the floor of the trauma room. In Tahoe she was useless, as useless and empty as she knew herself to be.

Each night the patients came begging for help in her dreams, each night she reached out to them. They pulled away from her, too far to reach. Their bodies morphed into the body of the young cop, bloodied and broken. Their eyes turned electric hazel and bored into her--accusing--telling the world that she could not help them. The images that had reflected in the detective’s eyes in the trauma room flashed once more. All the patients opened their mouths to speak. They screamed, "you aren’t good enough, smart enough, fast enough! You let us die. You let me die!" The multitude of broken, bloody bodies became one, that of a small boy, a boy with green eyes.

All around the room, doctors pointed at her, stethoscopes slung carelessly around their necks, blood dripping from their gloves. They all had the same sparkling hazel eyes, staring at her over their surgical masks, accusing her.

"Incompetent!" they screamed at her, "You let them die. They came to you for help and you let them die. You didn’t give them what they needed. You didn’t do your job. . .your job. . .your job." The last words echoed into eternity.

Night after night, afternoon nap after afternoon nap, the dreams never varied. Those hazel eyes found her out. They begged for help and saw that she could not. It had only been through the solace of Brother Alcohol that Mara had found peace and the courage to face another day. Hating the taste of the liquor, she found that she could inject a small amount of vodka into the vein in her thigh. The peace would come like a warm blanket. She was Mara the Unflappable once more.

------

"The vacation was great, Dale. Just what I needed! I got my head together and figured out just what I needed to get me back on track. " she smiled her most winning smile. It WAS true. She knew what she needed. . .she needed to escape from the eyes that had seen her soul. She had to stop him from telling the world that she couldn’t help, that she was too dead to save them. Scores would die unless she kept that guilty knowledge a secret. Hundreds had passed through her caring hands--only he knew the truth, the weakness that she had to hide.

"Uh, Dale?" She hesitated, knowing that she had to be careful. He looked back at her from the door.

"Yes?"

"What ever happened to that cop? You know the one that I. . ." she trailed off, unable to finish . Perhaps she wouldn’t have to worry. Maybe God, blood loss, or bacteria had solved her problem for her. It was the first time in her life she had been willing to surrender a patient to Death.

"Caine?" he asked, the name coming easily to him. It was unusual to remember a patient from ER so far removed from his visit. "They released him a week after you left"

"Caine?"--the name hit her like a speeding bus. "Peter Caine?"

*The man that Mr. Wu wanted her to meet?*

"Yeah. You haven’t had the pleasure before? I’m surprised. He’s a regular. Kid doesn’t seem to be able to dodge a bullet to save his soul. He’s a real hand full, but a Hell of a nice guy when he’s not all shot up." Dale chuckled. Peter Caine was number one--with a bullet--on Dale’s list of most-difficult-to-treat patients. He never came in without being covered in blood, yet he fought all the way. Someday Dale was going to issue that pretty blond partner of Caine’s a morphine vial like they did with the medics in ‘Nam. Maybe then the man would come in calm enough to treat.

"No" Mara stammered, suddenly connecting the Peter Caine that Mr. Wu had tried to fix her up with to the Peter Caine--Terror of the 101st. His father was some sort of priest, an apothecary. No wonder he had been able to see her weakness. "I never had the honor before."

"Lucky you," Dale said, exiting. "Welcome back anyway , Mar."

The room swirled again. . .tilting. . . and then righting itself again. Mara’s mind raced, dulled by the alcohol, sharpened by the false clarity that sleep deprivation provided. It suddenly all made sense . Peter Caine was like his father, he knew things. Most of all, he knew things about Mara. If those things got out, she’d be fired, then who would save the bloody bits of humanity that came into the trauma center? If she wasn’t there to do her job, who would plug the dike? She knew that she was not good enough, but there was no one else.

He hadn’t told anyone yet or she would have been exposed, but it was only a matter of time. Hospital administrators didn’t let dead people work in the hospital, and Mara could tell that Peter knew she was dead inside. He had seen the decay in her soul. He would tell. She had to find him, stop him from sharing her secret sin. Somehow, she had to convince him that what he had seen was a lie.

*Oh God,* she cried softly to herself.

* How to I convince someone that what they know to be truth is not true?*

[end part 2]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 3 by shylo

Peter Caine was covered in sweat. It dripped from his silky brown hair onto his brow. It trickled down his well-muscled back. It ran rivulets down his bare chest soaking into the waistband of his sweatpants. He hated this part of getting shot worse than waking up after surgery. Physical therapy was the torture necessary to get his damaged muscles functioning again. As he did with everything else, Peter pushed himself harder to recover than he should have. He used the exercises he knew so well from the Western doctor’s physical therapy, then began his real workout. Tai Chi served his purposes more than the lifts and pulls of his instruction sheet. He needed to regain mental discipline as well as range of motion. He continued the slow precise movements, pushing himself harder and harder. The newly-healed right shoulder protested as he raised his arms straight out from his sides with agonizing slowness, rotating his palms to face the sky.

"Just what the Hell do you think you’re doing, Kid?" a voice boomed from behind him, breaking his concentration. He jerked around to face the intruder. . .a little too fast. The pain from the bullet wound low on his right side tilted the room at a crazy angle and blackness closed in on his vision. He started to fall, but gentle arms caught him before he impacted the floor. He looked up gratefully into green sunglasses and a concerned face. . .Kermit. Kermit eased him down to the carpeted floor pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the perspiration from his face.

"Easy, kid, I got you." his harsh voice of a moment before became gentle and soothing. Peter closed his eyes for an instant, letting the pain and nausea wash over him. He drew in a deep, ragged breath. . .trying to center himself. . .still the calm would not come. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes as he fought against the pain. It was always like this. Damn it, he hated the weakness and agony that came afterwards.

"Thanks, Kermit" he said through clenched teeth. The invisible burning swords that lanced his chest were being slowly withdrawn, and with them the pain was easing.

"I will repeat myself, what the hell do you think you’re doing?" the roughness was back in Kermit’s voice. Peter opened his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the couch.

"I was just. . ." he started, trying to blow the whole thing off.

"You were just trying to end up back in the hospital." Kermit finished for him. "I know what the doctor told you, and he didn’t say anything about a kung fu workout!"

"It wasn’t kung fu. It was Tai Chi." Peter protested, knowing that he would lose this argument with Kermit, the same way he had lost every other argument with the computer genius in green glasses.

"Oh? I am so much happier now." Kermit’s voice took on a sardonic note. "What ever the hell it was, you’re not ready for it, kid. Didn’t the fact that it hurt like hell give you a clue to that?"

"How did.." Peter started to protest.

"How did I know it hurt? Let’s see, white pasty complexion, look of agony on the face, and body covered in sweat. It isn’t that warm in here, Peter, and you weren’t working hard enough to get that kind of a sweat going. Hmmm. . .yes. . .I do believe those could be clues."

"Oh," Peter conceded softly, knowing he’d been caught. "Look, I was going crazy just sitting there moving my arm up and down. At the rate he wants me to move, it’ll take me until next year to get back to work."

Kermit reached down and grasping Peter’s good left arm, helped the young man to his feet. He then promptly shoved him, somewhat ungently, onto the couch.

"My God, kid, at the rate you draw bullets, maybe next year is too soon for you to go back to work. Couldn’t you have just warned Jody about the gunman, instead of jumping between her and the bullets?" The exasperation was coming through clearly in his voice. " I promised Paul I’d look out for you but , damn, you’re making it hard."

"I can take care of myself." Peter protested hotly starting to rise from the couch. Kermit used a single index finger to push him back to seated position.

"Not the way you’re going. How am I gonna tell Annie that her beloved son had to go back to the hospital because he couldn’t follow the doctors orders?" Kermit asked, his voice low and hinting danger.

Peter ignored the warning and glared defiantly at him. "You won’t have to tell her because I am not going to go back to the hospital."

"Keep it up, Peter, and I will make sure you do" Kermit warned, less subtly. Peter blanched and lowered his gaze. He knew he had been beaten. Kermit would make good on his threat. He still had not been properly housebroken after his days as a mercenary. If it took violence to keep Peter safe, well then. . .

"Look, I didn’t come over here to fight with you. "Kermit offered a figurative olive branch. " I knew you’d be going stir crazy so I dropped by to see if you wanted to go to Chandlers for a little while tonight. The gang is meeting there after shift."

Peter took a mental inventory of his condition. He was tired, and sore, but not really hurt. Some time out of the apartment would do him good.

"Oh man, thanks, Kermit. Just let me get showered up and changed." he told his older friend eagerly. The dizziness returned when he rose, but only momentarily. By the time he had climbed out of the shower and into fresh clothes, he felt nearly human. As he pulled on a shirt, Peter glanced at his chest in the mirror. The scars were still angry and purplish after almost three and a half weeks. The one low on his right side was larger, an exit wound. He had a scar on his back in perfect line with it, somewhat smaller, where the bullet had entered and miraculously missed anything but muscle and connective tissue. The doctor had been amazed that the bullet had not even nicked the intestines or the lung. It had torn some blood vessels, though, nearly causing him to bleed out. The other scar, high up on the right side was just an entrance wound, but the surgeons had needed to open it further to extract the bullet. When he took the first hit, shielding Jody’s body with his, it spun him around. The second bullet entered just below the the collar bone and lodged against the shoulder blade near his right armpit. Neither of the wounds would have been that bad if he hadn’t bled so much. The shock was what had nearly killed him. He smiled a moment as he finished buttoning the shirt.

"You’ve been shot often enough that it shouldn’t have come as a shock to you." That is what Kermit had told him when he woke up, in the hospital once more. . .in restraints once more. . .hurting one more time. Once he was conscious, the nurse had removed the restraints, and he sighed, wondering how bad he had fought them this time. He hadn’t seen any black eyes on any of the nurses but he hadn’t seen the ER staff yet .

"Hey, Kid, are you gonna be ready anytime soon, or should I order pizza while I wait?" Kermit called impatiently from the living room. Peter smiled to himself, and walked out into the room, gingerly tucking his shirt tails in. He pulled his coat and keys out of the hall closet , turning to Kermit.

"I was born ready." he flashed his famous grin. Kermit gently but firmly took the keys from his hand.

"In case you have any wild ideas about driving yourself there, forget it. You’re riding with me. The Kermitmobile awaits."

[end part 3]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 4 by shylo

Chandlers was smoky, and noisy, and crowded. . .and just what Peter needed. He had missed the action more than anything else over his long weeks at home. Kelly brought Annie over several times, the gang stopped by, but it wasn’t the same.

Upon arrival, Kermit had whisked him and the group off to booths in the back. Standing at the bar getting jostled around was not his idea of what Peter should be doing so soon after nearly losing his life.

"God," Kermit groaned aloud as he headed Peter off from having a beer and steered him over to a Pepsi, "this must be what it’s like to have a teenager."

"Oh, come on, DAD," Peter teased, "just one isn’t gonna kill me."

"No, but *I* might if you don’t knock it off. " Kermit growled, glaring over the top of his ever present green shades. His heart wasn’t in it, though. He was glad to see the kid springing back.

"You’re gonna need something for pain by the time this night is through, " Jody spoke seriously, but not without sympathy, "and a beer might not go too well with that."

Peter gave up. His heart wasn’t really in it. He didn’t need a beer to unwind. He was so unwound from spending time alone that it was good to be a little wrapped up. Jody was right about one thing, though, he was probably going to need some help to sleep. The small twinge in his shoulder had gone to a bone-deep ache about half an hour after he arrived. He didn’t want to leave, though.

Feeling alive for the first time in weeks, he glanced through the bar. . .old habits died hard. Even out of commission, he scanned for trouble. . .and found it. A pretty brunette, with a body to kill for, met his glance for half an instant then looked away. She had a short red dress painted on, low cut and leaving nothing to the imagination. As Peter watched her, she slipped expensive mirrored sunglasses over her eyes, then turned back to face him. For a moment, Peter wondered if Kermit had a twin sister. Who else would wear sunglasses inside a dark bar? When he looked her way again, her face was still turned in his direction. He had the distinct feeling that he was being given the once-over by the mystery woman. Taking a chance, he flashed her his most killer smile. She did not look away. The smile she returned could have melted tempered steel at a thousand paces.

Suddenly the room was much too hot, and too small, and too crowded.

"Easy lover boy." Kermit whispered under his breath. " You’re not up to that kind of a workout."

Peter flushed red hot, then looked down, embarrassed that he’d been caught. He grinned at Kermit. "Can’t blame a guy for looking can you?"

"You’re incorrigible," Skalaney shook her head and gave him a gentle punch on the left shoulder.

"Ain’t it the truth." Peter agreed, then looked back to where the steamy lady had been. He was disappointed to see that she was nowhere to be seen. Kermit was right, though. He really wasn’t up for that sort of action. He wasn’t really the ‘Hi-I-don’t-know-your-name-but-I’d-like-to-have-wild-sex-with-you’ kind of guy anyway. He much preferred to touch and be touched by someone he cared about. It did make for a great fantasy though. As he sighed deeply, and turned back to the conversation, the ache in his shoulder becoming a sharp pain.

Jody had been watching Peter all night. . . seeing him laugh. . . teasing him about the mystery woman who so obviously invited him with her smile. . .sensing the pain that was making his blush turn pale and his laugh lines draw tighter. The twinge of jealously she had felt over the strange woman was overpowered by the need to protect him as he had protected her.

"Hey partner, looks like it is past your bed time. . .and since the red hot lady left, chances of you having anyone tuck you in are slim to none. What do you say to a glass of water and a bedtime story?" she teased, suggesting without pushing, that it was time to call it a night.

Peter looked into Jody’s eyes and read the concern there. She was right. He was getting tired. Kermit had disappeared to answer his pager, and Skalaney was yawning. Blake had left a half hour before. Captain Simms had popped her head in only long enough to say hello, then good bye. The young detective was reluctant to have the night out end, though. These last two hours had seemed like seconds. Just as he was getting ready to protest, Kermit returned.

"Kid, I have to go to the office. Something’s up. I’ll drop you off at your place, then head in." he said, his voice tense. He was in a hurry to get to his computer and pull the files that he needed for this case, but he wasn’t about to leave Peter at Chandlers. . .or worse yet, take him to the precinct.

"Kermit, I’ll tuck in our favorite Boy Toy" Jody volunteered jokingly, but her voice said clearly--Go, I’ll take care of Peter.

"Peter? OK, with you?" Kermit asked, already turning to go.

"Sure, Kermit, she even promised me a story." Peter agreed reluctantly. He pouted a moment, but it was just for show. To be honest, he was ready to go home, take a painkiller, and sleep until he felt human again. The two of them rose and headed for the door. Terry, the bartender, waved to them the returned to polishing glasses and listening to a joke from one of the men at the bar.

Outside, Peter lurched slightly as his legs began to feel like jelly. Suddenly, he was very weary.

"Easy, Peter, I’ve got you." Jody whispered. She wrapped an arm around his waist, giving him just enough support, and placed his arm around her shoulder. They looked to all the world like two lovers strolling together to their car.

"Thanks, Jod." Peter told her, "I guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was."

"That’s what partners are for." Jody told him, secretly loving his arm around her. Just having him this near was both Heaven and Hell. His touch was sending shivers down her spine, but the pressure on her shoulder told her that he needed her rather than wanted her. She sighed as she climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. So near yet so far. . .

***

Near, yet somehow so far away, Mara removed the mirrored sunglasses and tugged at the hem of the red dress. She felt like a whore, painted and dressed for sex. She could tell this evening’s venture had worked, though. She had a chance to succeed in her plan. . .a small chance, but a chance.

It had taken a healthy sum of money to find out that Chandler’s was one of Peter Caine’s favorite hangouts. She had paid a barmaid at Chandler’s more money to call her if Peter Caine should come in. In the month since he had looked into her eyes and discovered her secret, Maralisa Jamison had spent a great deal of time and effort learning about the young detective. It would be worth it , however, if she could just convince him not to share her secret with the world.

The most important part of her plan was to gain the upper hand. All would be lost if he knew who she was. . .and it had worked. Peter hadn’t recognized her. The dress alone had been enough to distract anyone, but she couldn’t take chances. Her long brown hair hung in wild ringlets almost to her waist, not tied up in a French braid that she wore at work. She had spent hours perfecting the stance, the smile, the body language. Mara had acted her whole life, fooled people into believing that she was whole, that she was good at what she did. Now, the act was going to cost her. She had been found out. She had to give up the last threads of her soul to keep the secret, beginning with the seduction of Peter Caine.

Mara had to take this slow, though. . .tempt him, tease him, make him want her. She had to make him see only her body and nothing else. If he saw her eyes he would know. He would know and he would own her. In his knowledge of her shortfalls, he held the key to her soul. She had to seduce him first. . . mind and body, to gain control before she could convince him not to tell. She would promise him anything. . .do anything. . . to keep that knowledge between the two of them.

[end part 4]

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IN HIS EYES- PART 5 by shylo

Peter and Jody arrived at his place not one moment too soon. The exhaustion that he felt had turned his body to silly putty. The too-recently-healed wounds contained miniature thunder storms, with lightening bolts shooting through him all too often. He leaned on Jody as he had outside Chandlers. She looked into his tight face.

"Well, lover boy, should I call the Killer Lady in the Red Dress back?" she joked, pretending not to be concerned about him.

"Maybe later," he spoke between clenched teeth, grateful for the pretense that she did not know how helpless he was at that moment. Worse than physical therapy was the dependence upon other people. He had made himself an island since the departure, yet another time, of both his fathers. Perhaps isolation and trusting in only himself was the only way to deal with the pain of their leaving .

Jody helped him into his bedroom, unconsciously delighting in the rich masculine decor and the scent of his lair. Easing him down on the bed, she went into the bathroom, looking in the medicine cabinet for another kind of help for him.

"I don’t need anything, Jody. " he called to her, his voice tight and his breathing strained.

"Don’t give me that macho man crap, " Jody protested, finding an amber plastic bottle that she sought. "You’ll feel better if you get the pain under control."

Upon returning to the bedroom, she discovered that he had gotten the pain under control. He lay on the bed, eyes closed, breathing regularly. Jody listened to his respirations for a moment or two, assuring herself that he was merely asleep and had not passed out. Ever so gently, she unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off his free arm. He groaned and rolled over, freeing the other arm. Slowly tugging the shirt off, she paused a moment to stare at his angry wounds. It tore her heart that he had been so horribly injured. . .saving her. . .keeping her alive. She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him close, press her face to his chest, and just listen to him breath.

Her partner moaned softly , then rolled over on his back. Jody pushed his dark hair from his eyes, softly brushing the side of his face with her hand. She justified the touch as checking for fever, but in her heart she knew that she had touched him because she had wanted to. He moved his face into her hand, sensing her nearness, turning toward her.

Reluctantly, she withdrew to safer territory. Removing his shoes and socks, she pulled the coverlet over him, wrapping him in a thick cotton cocoon. Before she finished tucking him in, Jody afforded him one last bit of comfort, unfastening the buttons of his 501 Levis. Jody could feel his smooth skin brushing against hers, could smell the musky Peter-scent close to her. She burned to rip his jeans off, pull his body close to hers. She wanted to wrap herself around him like the coverlet, touching every centimeter of exposed flesh. She didn’t, though, resigning herself to place the soft cotton comforter where she wanted to be. With a tear in the corner of her eye, she turned away, shutting off the light as she left.

****

Upon contact with the bed, Peter had begun a pain endurance technique that his father had taught him. "Become one with your pain," his father had instructed. Peter had modified the technique. He became two with his pain. He left his body behind in the room as his mind traveled to a place without agony. The cop was consciously aware of all that was going on around him; he just refused to be part of it. It was as if he were looking through the glass of an aquarium --from the water side--and watching the world. Many times in the past, injured and in pain, he had retreated to that same safe place within himself. Appearing to all those around him to be unconscious-- he hid, rested, and let his body repair itself.

As his essence separated from the exhaustion and pain, his breathing slipped into a steady rhythm. In one part of his mind, he was aware of Jody unbuttoning and removing one sleeve of his shirt. Staying in the safe place, he willed his body to roll over. As he felt Jody’s hand on his cheek, he nuzzled into it , reveling in its warmth and comfort. His haven almost dissipated when Jody unbuttoned his jeans. It took all of the control he possessed not to move, not to return to the world of the living.

Peter opened one eye just a crack when he heard the front door close. Not letting himself become fully aware, he sighed sadly. This would be another special moment in his secret world that would not--could not-- cross into the world of pain and life. Try as he might to remember the words and touches he experienced while he was escaping the pain, he knew that he would take nothing of that happened with him when he returned to the ‘real world’. Those memories would wait, neatly filed away, until he sought refuge within himself once more. Only in an occasional dream could the moments in his sanctuary be his in his other existence. Peter closed his eye and drifted from his safe place into sleep.

[end part 5]

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PART 6

After leaving Peter at Chandlers, Maralisa had gone home and showered for what seemed like an eternity. No matter how much water streamed over her, she could not get the slimy feeling to go away. The dress, the makeup, the hair--all of it seemed very wrong, so very evil. No matter how ineffectual she had been in saving lives, at least she had never felt unclean.

*I have to do this.* she told herself. *No matter what it costs me, I have to keep him from telling the world. I may not be able to save the world. . .*

A sob caught in her throat as she continued her mental conversation, taking a detour into guilt .

*I couldn’t even save one little old man who ran the corner grocery store. If I had only been faster, I might have been done taking the history and been able to be there to help him.**

The tears intermingled with the water and washed down the drain. *I am Mara, the Unflappable. . .* she began her mantra.

****

The night after Mara had seen Peter at Chandlers, all Hell broke loose. She had arrived at the hospital a few minutes early, getting back into her routine of spending nearly every waking moment at work. After the turnover meeting, she felt more confident than she had in a long time. Maybe everything would return to normal once more. Her hopes were shattered, however, when the ambulance siren wailed as it pulled in, bearing a patient that needed more than she could give. Tyler and Jenson were on a different rotation, and she did not recognize the paramedics that unloaded the gurney from the back of the MedAide, Inc. ambulance. One of them was a short brunette woman, a few years younger than Mara. She was working the ambi-bag furiously as her partner pumped on the chest of the man on the gurney. Red was everywhere. The patient was covered with it, the paramedics were soaked, and the gurney looked like a bucket of blood had been thrown on it. Mara stepped back and caught her breath sharply. The room became uncomfortably hot, and the air grew heavy. The man on the gurney sat up, an ethereal cloud that passed through the paramedics. They did not seem to notice that their patient was not in the body that they were so frantically trying to revive. They continued to count out the CPR rhythm as the blood soaked apparition sat cross legged, somehow joined at the feet with the soon-to-be corpse on the gurney. Unable to move, Mara watched in horror as the scene played out in front of her. The ethereal being was too small to be the man, more the size of a young boy. It seemed to grow as she watched it, turning into someone older. The translucent man, whose skin glowed an eerie blue, turned his head and looked at her. The too familiar eyes were a brilliant electric hazel. He locked his eyes to her, and raised one blood-soaked arm. Extending an index finger that dripped red fluid, the apparition opened his mouth and spoke.

"I know." Peter Caine’s lips spoke the words that drove a knife through her. "Your secret is mine. Your soul is mine. I know!"

As if anchored to the spot and swimming in a sea of red jello, Mara’s vision clouded. She could not draw a breath, could not hear sounds that seemed so muffled. Only the apparition was in focus, those accusing green eyes staring once more into her soul. Peter Caine’s second visit to her trauma room, if only in spirit, had a much stronger effect than his first. She tried to hold on to reality. This injured man was not Peter Caine. The blackness that came quickly once again was welcome. . .

[end part 6]

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PART 7

Peter awoke the next morning sore but otherwise none the worse for wear. He cursed himself for pushing too hard, letting his friends see how vulnerable he really was. It would be difficult to convince Cpt. Simms to let him come back to the precinct after Jody told her about his "collapse." He desperately needed to get out of his apartment. The walls were getting too familiar, and too close together for his tastes. Shaking his head, he spoke to himself out loud.

"Caine, you’re losing it. After last night, you’ll be lucky if Kermit doesn’t make good on that "promise" to help you back to the hospital. Well, can’t just sit around here and mope. Maybe a visit to the Ancient will help."

***

Maralisa awoke from the peaceful darkness into blinding light and a confused symphony of sounds. When the fog in her mind cleared an instant later, she realized that she was on a gurney in one of the Curtain Areas. Dale was shining his penlight into her eyes.

"Welcome back, Mar," he said, not in his friendly how-was-your-vacation tone, but in his I-am-a-doctor voice. "You took a header in the Trauma Room. . .again."

Mara heard the accusation in his voice--she had failed him. Oh God, why was this happening to her. Becoming more aware of her surroundings, she sat up. She was still dressed in her scrubs. Her strength was returning rapidly, and despite a small headache, she felt nearly normal. The nurse felt something pulling at the skin near her elbow, and looked down. There was a small piece of gauze taped to the inside of her arm over a vein. She knew what that meant.

"Mara, we took some blood samples to see if we could get a handle on what is wrong. I had them draw a tox screen, too," he told her, watching for a reaction. "Is there anything that you want to tell me before I get the results back?

"You had no right!" Mara flared, using a tone she had never used with a doctor in her life. "That’s illegal."

"It’s a gray area, Mara. You were unconscious. I sent it in as a Jane Doe. If it makes you feel any better, I will promise that I won’t use the tox results when I write this up, but I have to know what is going on."

Tears sprung to her eyes as Mara the Unflappable dissolved into sobs. "I don’t know. I just don’t know. I saw that patient sit up and look at me, Dale. His body was on the cart, but he sat up and looked at me. . . ," she stopped, unwilling to share with anyone what the Peter Caine apparition had said to her. It was her secret. She would die to keep it.

Dale Meeksa put a gentle hand on Mara’s shoulder, giving her what comfort he could. He felt saddened that his "lion tamer" had broken. He had seen it before. . . PTSD. . . Post traumatic stress disorder. She had seen too much, felt too much. Stress was killing her.

Hating himself for doing it, he pushed more. "Mara, what are you taking? You’ve been edgy as hell lately. Your eyes are not clear. If you tell me, I can get you into a rehab. You can get yourself straight then come back."

"Nothing, I’m not taking anything!" Mara nearly screamed. A mental image of the syringe of vodka in her hand passed through her mind. She saw the sharp point pierce the already needle marked skin of her inner thigh.

"I don’t want to do this, Nurse Jamison, but I am writing you up. I will recommend to your supervisor that you be placed on immediate suspension pending a hearing. Until you come clean with me, there is no way I can help you."

He turned away from her and was gone. Mara laid back on the bed for a moment, then pushed herself up and to her feet. Walking as if she were in a dream, she brushed passed her coworkers, feeling their eyes on her back as she headed for the nurses’ locker room. All she could think of was getting home and into her bed. Perhaps if she were there, she could wake from this nightmare and all would be well again.

***

The meeting with her supervisor the following day went only a little better than her conversation with Dale Meeksa had. Dale had been good to his word and left out the any mention of the tox screen. Mara knew he had to have the results by then. Jasa Thomas, the administrative nursing supervisor, was reluctant to destroy her career over what she viewed as a stress problem. Without the blood alcohol results, reporting Mara’s level as over 0.11, she saw only a nurse who needed help coping. Jasa could not allow her to return to the trauma center, however. Mara was ordered on extended medical leave. She could be reinstated, but only if she agreed to counseling and a thorough physical that included a toxicology screen. Mara agreed, knowing that there would be no way around it. The physical and tox screen were to be scheduled to take place immediately before she returned, giving her enough time to get herself clean.

*I have fooled these people for five years* she thought to herself, *I can fool a pseudo-shrink for a couple of weeks. That will be time enough to get myself together.* She took a deep breath and left the supervisor’s office as Mara the Unflappable once more. On the elevator down, however, a thought hit her with such intensity that it nearly doubled her over.

What if Peter Caine told them about her? They knew she was stressed, but they were willing to forgive that as long as they believed that she was a good nurse. If Peter Caine told them that she couldn’t help, that she had only been playing the part of a competent nurse all these years, they would have no choice. The hospital would fire her. She would not be there when she was needed, and people would die because of it. Somehow, she had to get to him and stop him from telling. His silence was essential. Whatever it cost her. . .pride, self-respect, her soul. . .she had to win his silence.

[end part 7]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 8- by shylo

Peter grew stronger each day, thanks in part to the restorative tea that the Ancient had provided. The temporarily homebound detective grimaced as he took a second sip of the foul stuff.

"Pop, you must have learned your tea making skills from the Ancient. His concoctions are even worse than yours." Peter felt a small tugging at his heart as he spoke the words. He missed his father terribly, both fathers. In times like these, recovering, feeling unsure of his ability to return to 100% , he missed both of them more.

Shaking off the melancholy mood, he decided that a walk was in order. The doctors had released him for mild exercise, but would not let him return to the precinct. They knew from experience he would push too hard, too soon.

Pulling on a light sweater, the young detective headed out the door and toward the park not far from his apartment. It would be peaceful there, he could think. A million thoughts occupied his mind as he walked on the path around the man-made lake. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, was the nagging feeling that he was being watched. He stopped under the pretense that his shoelace had come undone. Bending down to fiddle with the laces, he casually surveyed the area.

A couple was strolling with their baby nearby. Some school kids were playing hooky to smoke and laugh in the park. To his left, two old men sat on a bench feeding the pigeons and telling stories each had retold a hundred times. Nothing seemed out of place. . .until he felt the touch. People had been walking up and down the path behind him, but he was aware of them. From out of nowhere, he felt the gentle touch of a hand on his back, trailing slowly, sensuously from one side to the other and then it was gone. He caught a glimpse of gauzy cotton. . . a dress perhaps.

Jerking upright to see who had sent shivers, though not unpleasant ones, up his spine, he bumped into a middle-aged lady burdened with an armload of painting supplies. The paints and brushes scattered as he apologized, scrambling to pick them up. As he frantically hurried to help her, yet search the area, he caught another glimpse of the cottony material. It was part of a soft, billowy, nearly-transparent dress that floated around a young woman while she walked away. Dark ringlets hung down her back nearly to her waist, and she looked somehow familiar. Just as he was picking up the last of the artist’s scattered belongings, his eyes on the slowly retreating form of the woman, she paused and turned. It was only for an instant, but that moment was frozen in time for Peter. The smile that danced on her lips told him that the touch had not been unintentional. It invited him, teased him, made him want to ride off into the sunset of a bad movie with her. Then he caught sight of the rest of her face, and saw the thing that told him who this woman was. Expensive mirrored sunglasses hid the eyes of this angel from him. It was the Lady in the Red Dress.

"My paints, Mister ?" the voice of the artist caused him to turn back to what he was doing. She stood impatiently, her hand extended, wanting the supplies that Peter had picked up. He smiled his most apologetic smile and surrendered the tubes and brushes in his hands.

"I’m sorry." he apologized once more, eager to be after the mystery woman. As he turned away from the artist, however, he saw that she had disappeared. He jogged over to the place he had seen her last, sure that she couldn’t be far. There was no sign of her. As far as he could look, no gauzy summer dresses were to be seen. Her disappearance must have been intentional. She was toying with him. . .and it was working. His heart was racing, but not from exertion. It had been too long since he had felt a touch that had affected him the way hers had. He had to find her.

***

Behind the gazebo, nearly a hundred yards away, Mara watched Peter Caine search for her. Everything had gone so well for her. The overburdened artist had happened along just as Mara needed a distraction. She had risked a great deal to touch Detective Caine. Even watching him was dangerous. He knew things. He would know that he was being followed. Somehow, it made the game almost fun. If the stakes hadn’t been so high, she would have enjoyed it. Perhaps Mr. Wu had been right about her and Peter.

Sure that he was gone, she moved off toward home. The touch had been enough for now. She had spent the entire first week of her suspension, minus the two hours at the hospital’s employee assistance shrink, watching his apartment, waiting for him to come out. She noted his movements, charted him like a case history. All of the time that she was watching him, a plan formed in her mind. She would allow him to see her, but not get near, not at first . Later, well, that was later. . .

[end part 8]

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PART 9

Peter had difficulty concentrating the next two weeks. Everywhere he went, whatever the time, he saw her. She smiled from across the street, then disappeared into the crowd. He caught a glimpse of her sunglasses through a store window, but by the time he went inside, she was no where to be found. It was driving him crazy, and driving him wild. There had been one more touch. The Stealth needed a tune up, so he dropped it off at the shop. Having nothing but time, he opted to take the bus back to his apartment. As he stepped off the crowded bus, he felt someone gently caress his arm. It lingered too long to be coincidental. He whirled around just in time to see the doors close, but not before he caught a fragment of a seductive smile through the bus window. The diesel belching monster carried away his lady of mystery.

These incidents were exciting, and at the same time frightening. If she had been an enemy, he would be dead by now. No one had ever managed to elude him for so long. He even dropped by the station and had the sketch artist draw up a composite. No one ever seemed to notice her, though. How could that be? Peter couldn’t get the woman off his mind.

He had returned to light duty almost a week ago, sitting behind a desk and aching to be back in action. The weakness that had haunted him for so long was all but gone. He wanted back on the streets. Maybe work would get the mystery woman off his mind .

***

"Peter?" the voice on the phone asked seductively. It was 1:30 in the morning, and Peter had only drifted off to sleep an hour earlier. When the phone rang, he fumbled around for a few moments, knocking the cordless off its stand. It took him almost a minute to find it.

"Who is this?" he croaked, his throat constricted with sleep and confusion.

"Soon, Peter, you will meet me." the voice that got his attention, both mind and body, spoke. "I’ve been watching you, and soon it will be time to meet."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, a little more composed.

"I saw you at Chandler’s and I wanted you. I want you to want me just as much. Are you up for a game, Peter? Do you want to play?"

"I don’t like games," he managed to say. His heart was racing and he could feel his pulse pounding. This woman was doing things to him that none of the women in his life had ever dreamed of, and he had never even met her.

"Oh, Peter. You’ll like this one," she laughed, a gentle sound, like a spring breeze. . .and then she hung up.

Sleep was impossible after the call, so Peter got up. Picking up the mess he had created in his search for the handset, he vowed to buy a speaker phone so that he wouldn’t have to fool around with the cordless.

Checking his caller id, he wrote down the number and dialed Kermit’s office.

"Griffin." came the curt response, no hint of sleep in the voice.

"Kermit, this is Peter. How did I know that you’d be there?" he asked, gently chiding his friend for keeping such a wearing schedule.

"Because this is where you’d be if you could dodge better," Kermit shot back without hesitation.

"Ouch." Peter acknowledged yet another loss in the verbal sparring match between the friends. "Look, Kermit, I need a favor. I need you to check out a phone number for me. I just got a call from the Lady in the Red Dress."

"Who?" Kermit asked. Peter could tell that he was dividing his attention between the phone and his computer screen.

"Chandler’s", he said. "The brunette in the shades and the killer smile."

"Oh yeah." Kermit used his favorite phrase. His tone suggested that he, too, remembered the woman at the bar.

"She didn’t tell me her name, give me her number, anything. . ." Peter lamented, letting the ending hang. He had told Kermit about the sightings of this beautiful woman.

". . .And you want me to help you find out who she is?" Kermit spoke, the grin on his face evident in his voice.

"To quote a very good friend of mine, ‘oh yeah’," Peter answered, then read the number to his keyboard king.

"Wait a sec. I will have the results as we speak." Kermit laid the phone down a moment then picked it back up.

"Peter, the number comes back as a pay phone at Chandler’s. What does this woman want with you?" Kermit asked, a concerned tone creeping into his voice.

"Need you ask?" Peter answered, blushing to his toes.

"Watch yourself, kid. There are some very scary people out there, both men and women," Kermit warned, not sure that he liked the chain of events that had lead up to the call. Stalking was stalking. The woman had not threatened Peter, nor had she done anything wrong, but he had an uneasy feeling about this one.

"Ok, DAD. Can I borrow the car tonight?" Peter teased.

"I’m serious, Peter. Don’t get yourself into something you wished that you hadn’t."

"Thanks, Kermit," Peter spoke seriously. He knew that his friend had only his best interests at heart.

***

Mara hung up the phone, instantly regretting her call. Suppose he recognized her voice. She had only spoken a few words to him, but he was special. He knew things. Sighing, she resigned herself to take the consequences. What was done was done. The next part of her plan was even more frightening. Contact. She was going to actually meet and talk to Peter Caine.

***

Peter checked out Chandler’s. No one remembered seeing the stunning brunette in the bar that night. How did she do it? She was smoke and shadow. She was driving him insane.

Two days passed since the early morning phone call. There had been no further contact, no sightings. Peter was nearly climbing the walls.

"Caine, I am sending you over to the Davis Building to deliver these files. That FBI team working on the Martin’s racketeering case has a temporary office in apartment 903. They need these files ASAP." Captain Simms said, handing him a stack of files at least two inches thick.

"Ahhh, Captain. You know how much I hate Feds. Can’t you just messenger it over?" Peter whined.

"I am messengering it over. You are the messenger. You have been bouncing off the walls for days now. This will give you a chance to get out of here." Her tone told him that resistance was futile.

***

The trip over was uneventful. Even the file exchange went off without a hitch. Peter managed to be civil to the FBI agents, and they ignored him. It wasn’t until the elevator ride back down to the garage level that "it" happened.

[end part 9]

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PART 10

The elevator had been crowded when Peter got on, almost too full. He slid in just inside the door and stood as most people stand on the elevator-- facing front, staring at the floor numbers going by. Floor by floor people disembarked until there were only a few of them left. The detective was in his own world, though, thinking about the woman in the red dress. At first he thought he imagined it when he felt a touch, light and seductive, on his left side. He started to look back, but the touch became firm, pushing against his turn.

"If you ever want to see me again, don’t turn around," a sultry voice whispered in his ear. He could smell her perfume--"Obsession" he guessed--and feel her warm breath on his neck. He wanted to turn around, seize her, take her in his arms, and pull her tightly to his chest. He didn’t. *Control,* he told himself, *You must maintain control.*

Her nearness was both exciting and disconcerting. How had she gotten so close to him without his knowledge?

"What do you want from me?" Peter whispered to her, hearing the quaver in his own voice as he struggled to maintain control of his body.

"I want to play a game," she breathed, brushing manicured nails up and down his back. He could tell that people were staring, but he didn’t care.

"Do you want to play, too?"she continued.

"Why me?" he questioned, staring into the polished chrome on the elevator wall, trying to see her reflection. The surface was just rough enough that he could see the ringlets, the sunglasses, and a skin tight black dress, but her face was out of focus.

"You look like someone who enjoys an adventure." Her answer came in the same breathy whisper that sent flashes of lightning and thunder throughout his body. Much more of this and he wouldn’t be able to walk in public.

"I don’t want to bother you," she spoke, singing the song of sirens that lured sailors to their deaths on treacherous reefs. "If you tell me to stop, I will. You will never see or hear from me again. . .Do you want me to stop?"

Every cop instinct Peter possessed screamed *Tell her to stop.* Unfortunately, other parts of Peter screamed louder.

"No," he told her. "Just tell me what to do."

"On the next floor, get off the elevator. Don’t look back. Wait for the next elevator then go on back to the precinct, Detective Caine. If you look back, I’ll be gone."

"When will I see you again?" Peter asked, having trouble catching his breath. She had moved closer to him, her body pressed tightly against his back. Her arms encircled his waist like that of a lover. Her hands were caressing his chest and ribs. God, it felt good. He could no more have sent her away than he could have made his own heart stop beating.

"Tonight. . .at your place. . .Are you ready to play a game?" she asked again, her left hand moving up his chest, suddenly reappearing on the side of his neck. It stroked gently, then touched his cheek with such tenderness that Peter could not believe it belonged to the seductress that was leading him into temptation.

"Will I like this game?" Peter managed to ask, his mind starting to reel. It was getting much too hot in the elevator. People were exiting long before their floors, muttering something about ‘get a room’. If she didn’t stop what she was doing soon, he would lose all control.

"You’ll love this game. You’ll be happier than you’ve ever been. I believe in pleasure, not pain," she promised, "but we have to play by my rules. That means that I am in charge. You can do that, can’t you?" she asked, her breathy whisper stealing his self control away. If she pressed any closer to him, they would have been one. Her hands were following a path from his thighs to his shoulders, slowly, teasingly, torturously delightful. He could feel his skin redden and his face flush. He had to get out before he grabbed her right there and ripped both their clothes.

"Remember, don’t look back," she admonished, as the elevator came to a halt and the door opened. She had disengaged from him, freeing him to go. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Finally, catching his breath, he stepped out of the car and fell back against the wall just outside the door. Peter felt as if he needed a cigarette. . . and he didn’t smoke. He leaned against the wall for several long minutes before he could push the elevator buttons. As he did, the thought occurred to him that she had pushed his buttons. . .all of them.

*If I had a brain in my head I would go straight to Kermit, and request backup for tonight ,* he thought to himself. Then, smiling, he knew with absolute certainty, that he did not have a brain in his head.

Back at the precinct, Kermit commented on his flushed appearance, suggesting that he might be overdoing it a bit. Peter brushed him off, laughing and saying that he had run the stairs instead of taking the elevator. He did not mention a word about his encounter.

The remainder of the day drug by. Peter barely heard a word that was being said. All he could think about was the hands on his body and the breathy voice in his ear.

*Tonight,* she had said, *at your place.*

Tonight couldn’t come soon enough.

[end part 10]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 11-by shylo

Peter straightened the cushions on the couch for the millionth time and readjusted the candles that were placed all around the room. He had not lit them. She hadn’t said what time tonight. He was as nervous as a white mouse at a cat show. The detective paused a moment, shook his head and spoke aloud.

"Caine, what the Hell are you thinking? This woman has to be trouble with a boldface capital ‘T’." He smiled, almost wickedly, then continued his monologue mentally. ". . .and that is what you’re thinking!"

His breath caught in his throat and he felt his pulse pound as the doorbell rang. He called out that he would be there in a second and rushed around lighting the candles. Just before he opened the door, he dimmed the lights. The twenty tiny flames danced as one.

She stood in the doorway cloaked in a hooded cape. It was satin and velvet, both soft and shiny all at the same time. The hood was pulled low over her face, but underneath it he could see the familiar shades hiding her eyes. He wondered what her eyes looked like as he smiled and reached out a hand.

"Hi. So I finally get to meet the woman that has been driving me crazy for weeks," he greeted her.

Her laughter surrounded him like a gentle breeze. "Yes, Peter Caine, tonight we will play a game. Are you ready?"

The mystery lady extended a single hand. Peter gently bent, touching it to his lips. He was surprised to see unmistakable signs of a someone who worked for a living, not a lady of leisure.

"I am at a disadvantage." Peter spoke to her, leading the woman to the room where the candlelight flickered, seeming to keep time to the music. "You know who I am but I have no idea who you are."

"Soon, Peter Caine, soon you shall know. First though, we will play." She pushed the hood of her cape back so that it fell, uncovering her hair. Shaking her head, the ringlets of beautiful brown tossed around her face, further hiding her identity from him. The ever present mirrored sunglasses remained in place. With a flourish, she unfastened the cape and let it slide seductively to the floor at her feet. Under it, she wore a full length black gown. It flowed and billowed around her like the gauzy summer dress, but was made of eiderdown soft lace. The bodice fit her tightly, showing off her toned body. The skirt was slit on both sides high up on her thighs. The legs that peaked through could only be described as perfection.

Peter was having trouble breathing, but the cop instincts within him screamed "Stop!" He didn’t listen. Instead he took the woman in his arms, pulled her close, and kissed her full on the lips. It was a deep, passionate kiss which she returned with greater enthusiasm than he knew was possible. They stayed like that for what seemed like hour, pressed so tightly together that they appeared to be one.

The woman broke contact first, gently pushing Peter back, laughing her wonderful laugh. She twirled , letting her long hair float around her head like a silken cloud. The vision in dark lace swayed to the music that was playing in the background. She trailed a hand across his back as she whirled behind him and then was facing him again. He reached for her once more.

"No, Peter Caine, the game begins. I am charge, remember?" she spoke in a breathy whisper. At that moment Peter would have crawled naked across the 101st precinct lobby for her.

"What is the game?" he asked, standing as she danced around him as if he were a May pole. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do nothing, Peter Caine, let me do what I will," she whispered in a voice that enticed rather than demanded.

Peter stood still, watching her circle him, feeling her hands on him. She stopped in front of the detective and pulled him close in another kiss that left him without will. He embraced her, feeling her long nails caress his body gently. She ran a hand down his chest, then tugged at his shirt, pulling it free from his waistband.

"Whoa, there," Peter protested, taking her wrists in his hands. "I don’t even know your name."

"Does it matter?" she asked, trailing kisses up and down his chest, nuzzling into his neck. "Just play the game."

He released her wrists, all caution thrown to the wind at that moment. Every ounce of intelligence he possessed screamed for him to run. He didn’t listen.

"How do we play?" Peter asked, surprised that he could speak.

"I will show you, Peter. I will show you," she whispered between butterfly kisses to his throat and neck. Tugging his shirt free, she slid her hands beneath it, sending electric shocks through Peter as her warm hands contacted his bare skin.

"Take your sunglasses off." Peter whispered in her ear as *his* hands traced patterns on her back.

"The eyes are the window to the soul, and my soul is my own," the woman of mystery spoke. Maralisa paused for a fraction of a second, losing concentration. Her act faltered and she almost slipped out of character. She knew she was lying. Peter Caine already owned her soul. Tonight she would get it back.

Her acting skills kicked in once more. She was again the trashy seductress of a romance novel. Her tongue traced a path from Peter’s collarbone to his chin. Blowing gently on the skin, like a girl scout nurturing a spark, she started a fire in his body. He drew a sharp breath, not from pain or surprise, but pleasure.

"Where can I freshen up?" she asked, pulling away reluctantly. Peter was almost beyond control, but he stopped and sank to the couch.

"In there," he pointed to the bathroom that adjoined his bedroom. "I’ll get us something to drink."

The mystery lady smiled the smile that had stolen his sanity. She reached to pick up a bag from the depths of the cape. Peter didn’t remember seeing her with it as she came in the door, but then he wasn’t looking at what she was carrying. She blew him a kiss, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Peter leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes and tried to catch his breath. Too fast. This was too fast. . .and stupid. Suddenly, he didn’t care.

He rose to go to the kitchen and search for the right beverage. Getting two stemmed glasses from the shelf, he was grateful that he had stopped taking any of the medication the doctors prescribed. Tonight definitely called for wine. A bottle he had been saving for a special occasion seemed appropriate. It took him several moments to find the corkscrew, then several more to get the bottle open. Nearly ten minutes had passed since the mystery lady disappeared into his bathroom.

Peter started to call to her, then remembered he didn’t know *what* to call her. He smiled to himself as he dimmed the lights even further.

*I am a detective. I will turn in my secret decoder ring if I can’t get her name by the end of the evening. * he thought as he poured the wine. He had just picked up the glasses when she emerged from the bathroom, the seductive smile dancing on her lips. The bag was no longer in her hands.

Peter went to her, holding out a glass of wine. The mystery temptress took the glass, remaining at an arms length. She tasted the wine with the tip of her tongue then wet her lips with the droplets that remained there. Peter moved toward her.

"I am in charge now, Peter Caine, my wish is your command," she spoke at last. Her elegant arm extended toward him palm forward, an enticing stop sign. Her actions said "Halt" but her body language said "Go". Peter’s mind spun trying to keep up.

He started to protest, but she placed a slender finger to her lips. "You will enjoy this, I promise. Just let me make you happy." With that, she crooked the finger and backed toward the dark of the bedroom. Peter had no choice but to follow.

Once in the bedroom, Maralisa began unbuttoning Peter’s shirt, slowly, very slowly. He reached to help her, but she pushed his hands away. Each time he moved to touch her, she softly forced his arms back to his sides.

"I’m in control, remember?" she said, laughing. She unbuttoned the button closest to his collar, then kissed each inch of skin that was exposed. With maddening slowness, she repeated the steps over and over. Each button undone was followed by kisses and teasing touches with the tip of her tongue. Peter groaned, trying to keep from ripping his shirt off and then her clothes. He could not keep his hands to himself, but she brushed them away, not letting him caress her.

The last button undone, and scores of tender kisses planted on his sensitive stomach, she eased the shirt off , exposing the newly healed scars on his shoulder and his side. Peter was surprised that she did not react to the damage done to his body, but he wasn’t really concentrating on his scars. Once again he reached to stroke her hair, touch her body. She pushed away his hands yet again.

"Not yet, Peter Caine, not until I say you can," her voice commanded. He dropped his hands to his side, afraid that she would stop what she was doing. *Oh God, don’t let her stop.* The trim brunette took a step closer, her body brushing up against his. She was so close that he took a step back just so that he could breath. His legs connected with the bed and without warning she gave him a hard shove. He fell on the bed, the mystery lady climbing on after him. Peter pulled himself up to the head of the bed, never looking away from her face. *Damn those sun glasses.* At that moment, Peter would have given the keys to the Stealth to have seen her eyes.

[end part 11]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 12- by shylo

The beautiful woman who had control of Peter Caine’s body, if not his soul, continued to nuzzle his chest. She planted wet, breathy kisses on him that set his skin on fire. Lightly running her hands all over his chest, his nerve endings were on full alert. He wanted to purr. He wanted to arch his back and push himself nearer to her touch like a cat. Peter took her in his arms and pulled her close to him.

"There are those pesky hands again," she laughed, pushing his arms away. She gently took him by the wrists and straddled his stomach. It took all of his self control to allow her to stop him. She pushed his arms up over his head and ran her nails, just barely touching his skin, down his wrists, his arms, his ribs, to his stomach, then back up to his face. With more tenderness than he though possible, she ran her slim fingers around his face, as if she were a painter trying to learn it’s lines and shape. She cradled his face in her hands, bent forward and kissed him deeply. Long moments passed with her lips pressed to his, her tongue exploring the depths of his mouth. He couldn’t decide if he was in Heaven or Hell.

"Do you want to play some more?" she asked, her lips pressed close to his ear as she ran the tip of her tongue up his throat to his earlobe.

"How can I refuse?" Peter managed to say. His breath was coming in short gasps. *Breathe*, he commanded himself. *Center yourself.* He regained some control, but only for a moment as she nipped at his chest.

"Do you trust me? " she continued.

"Trust has to be earned, but I am willing to play along." he whispered to her. He could feel her hair on his chest, teasing him, brushing against his skin. He was going to lose his mind soon.

"Give me your hand." she commanded. Peter held out his left hand to her. She stepped off the bed for a moment and went to the headboard on the left side.

"Where are you going?" Peter asked almost plaintively. *Please don’t stop now.*

"I’m going to help you play the game." she whispered mysteriously. Having only the flicker of the candles in the other room as light , he couldn’t really see what she was doing. She still had his wrist in her hand. As she tugged gently with one hand, she traced the length of his forearm with her other. Up the wrist, along the veins and tickling the inner elbow her long nails did not scratch so much as caress. Peter scooted over, following where she seemed to be leading.

"I set up a little surprise for us while you were getting the wine," she said, snapping a handcuff on his left wrist. He could still hear the smile dancing in her voice. Peter felt panic rise in his throat. What sort of game was this? He tugged at the shackle to discover that it was attached to the metal of his headboard.

"What the Hell are you doing?" he demanded, no longer under her spell. He sat bolt upright in the bed. His mind took over control from his body. She stood just out of his reach as he pulled on the headboard, feeling trapped.

"Do you feel helpless, out of control?" she asked, standing a safe distance away.

"Yes! Now let me loose." he spoke angrily. "How the Hell did you set this up?"

"Don’t be mad," she pleaded, "It’s all part of the game. I set it up while you thought I was in the bathroom. I am going to help you release control to someone else. I will set you free in 5 minutes. . .if you still want to be free by then."

Peter relaxed a bit, and laid back on the bed. His anger had subsided, but he was still apprehensive. He knew that this was a bad idea, but he had gone with bad ideas all of his life. Why not one more?

"Just tell me before you do something like that again." he insisted, feeling her join him on the bed again.

"In that case, I am going to do something like that again. Let me have your other hand." Her tongue was back on his chest, her hands running through his hair. His better judgment fighting a losing battle with his body, he allowed her to secure his right hand as she had done the left. Pulling to test the restraints, he felt the panic return as he knew he was helpless. *Breathe.* he commanded himself. *It’s only a game.*

Sensing his fear and hesitation, she devoted the next several minutes to calming the handcuffed man. Mara stroked his hair as a mother would soothe her child, then she rubbed and caressed his entire body in an entirely different manner. All the while she spoke in quiet whispers to him. Her words were those she used in her "lion taming act."

"Easy, I am here to help make you feel better. All I want is to make you happy." she sighed in his ear. He listened to the tone of her voice rather than her words. His breathing calmed, and the panic subsided. He began to wonder what other surprises she had in store. He didn’t have to wonder long.

Smiling, she held up a black silken scarf and tilted her head as if asking permission. He breathed deeply, threw caution to the wind, and nodded. Feeling her hands fasten the scarf around his eyes was both frightening and exciting. Each new surprise brought terror and desire.

"Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. I just want you to enjoy this. By trapping your body, I set it free. You can lie back and enjoy without having to do anything."

"Surrender yourself. I have more surprises for you, Peter Caine. You will like each one. I promise."

The woman straddled him, leaning forward as she did and grasped each of his wrists where the cuffs held him bound. She let her fingers explore his wrists, his forearms, his biceps at roughly half a snail’s pace. It took an eternity for her to touch each inch of exposed flesh, to brush her fingertips lightly across it, then to touch it again. His skin was on fire by the time she reached the tender insides of his elbows. Since they were within reach, the seductress replaced her fingers with her lips and continued the exploration down his arms, first the right, then the left. Each place she touched him, she pressed moist lips to the skin, traced some sort of pattern on the place with the tip of her tongue. She let her hot, moist breath send shock waves through him. He was straining at the bonds by the time she teased his right shoulder, skirting the too-smooth skin of scar tissue there. She stopped a moment, reared back and rested a gentle hand on his chest, feeling his beating heart pound.

"Slowly, we must do this verrrrry slowly." she commanded him, firmly, yet with a hint of passion in her own voice. "Don’t resist or you will hurt yourself. You must surrender." He forced himself to stop pulling on the bonds. Once again she returned her attention to his body. Her hands joined her mouth in touching the handcuffed man. He had never experienced anything even remotely close to this.

The woman’s hands and lips withdrew, but Peter felt her hair just barely brush over his hypersensitive skin, down his chest, up his ribs, down each arm. She stroked him with her long dark tresses, the silky hair only lightly making contact with him. It tickled, it teased, it made him suddenly want to grab her and bury his face in it. He tugged at the bindings on his wrists, ignoring the pain in his right shoulder. The sharp lances of agony did not matter, getting closer to the satiny human-fur did.

A million nerve cells stood on end at once, and then the touches were gone. His breathing was ragged. From the head of the bed, near his ear, he felt the moist warm sensation of her breath. "Not yet, Peter Caine, we have so much more to do tonight. . . so . . . much. . . more." She emphasized each word with a gentle tongue bath to his neck, to his jawline, and . . .oh my, god. . .to his ear. The gentle tip skimmed his skin, paused, then touched him again. Everything she did seemed to consist of sensation, anticipation, frustration, then finally sensation again. Peter rolled his head back, exposing his neck more fully to her as she kissed, licked, and blew solftly on the skin there. With a slightly firmer touch, she traced each of his collarbones with a fingernail. He could feel the scratches, not deep, not breaking skin, but supplying a different sensation.

"Who are you?" he asked, willing himself to focus. He was losing himself in her touches. He had surrendered control, but could not. . .would not. . . give up completely.

"SSSShhhhhh." she quieted him, placing a single index finger to his lips. "Just experience. This night is not about who we are, but what we are."

Her words promised more sensation and more danger. Peter gave in a little more. Her finger traced his lips, a feather touch, tickling more than touching. He lifted his head to kiss the digit, but she pulled away from him, laughing.

"No, Peter, you may not. It is up to me to touch you. You must simply accept."

With that, she knelt down beside him on the bed and planted a hundred wet kisses just above and just below his navel. Her gentle hands expertly unfastened the button at the waist of his Levis. She just barely touched his skin as she traced circles and stars on his flanks with her lips. There was no doubt that Peter was glad to see her. He no longer cared that his hands were bound and he was helpless. She was in control once more.

His body screamed for her touch as she stopped what she was doing and left his side. Before Peter could protest, she returned to the bed. Peter heard her rummaging around.

"Time for a snack, Peter." Mara almost purred. She looked at the well-muscled chest beneath her. It excited her to have him under her control. She watched his face as she dipped two fingers into a container and smeared something dark brown and cold on his chest. He flinched as the unexpected coolness of it touched his skin. A brief flash of fear crossed his handsome features. Mara smiled. Licking her fingers seductively, she tossed the container away and drew another from her black velvet bag . Opening it, she waved it under the young detective’s nose.

Peter caught the unmistakable scent of peanuts. *Peanut butter?* Once more she applied the contents of the container to his skin. Tossing the containers carelessly away, she knelt beside Peter. Biting into a strawberry from yet another container, she nibbled at the fruit not chewing or swallowing it. Slowly, torturously, she ran her tongue across the peanut butter smear, then into the brown smear. She kissed him on the lips, letting him taste her surprise. He opened his mouth to allow her tongue inside. *Strawberries, chocolate AND peanut butter.* He felt like a giant Reeces Cup with a strawberry thrown in, and loved every moment of it. Over and over she repeated the process, nibble the fruit, lick the chocolate, lick the peanut butter, kiss him and share her bounty. It took roughly an eon and three days before she lapped the last of the evening’s repast off his chest. He would have happily eaten every meal for the rest of his life in that manner.

With each stoking of her tongue on his chest, he moved one step closer to loss of himself. She owned him.

What seemed like days later, he could hear her sip something, obviously enjoying it greatly. He felt her lips press against his and droplets of wine passed to his lips. He licked them up greedily. The peanut butter had given him a powerful thirst. She withdrew her lips and replaced them with what felt like a pencil or stick. He closed his mouth but opened it again quickly as he realized it was a drinking straw. She placed drop after drop of the wine on his lips, smiling as he tasted and accepted each one. *Soon*, she said to herself. *Soon you will be mine and the bargain will be struck.* The initial horror she had felt at giving herself to this man in exchange for silence had disappeared. Now she was looking forward to it. The seduction scene she had been playing out with him was affecting more than the young cop.

Peter was indeed affected. He found his head was spinning and his breathing sounded as if he had just run the marathon. Each touch drove him further and further into delightful madness.Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, a voice of reason spoke too clearly to be ignored.

"Protection," he managed to say, knowing that he had to speak while he still had a voice. "In the nightstand drawer."

"Not yet, I must have a promise from you first." she whispered seductively. Her hands were unfastening the rest of the buttons of his jeans. "I shall reveal myself to you, and you will give me your word of honor."

"What promise is that?" he asked out of breath. He was balancing on the edge of loss of reason.

"First, the lights." She rose from the bed and turned on the bedside lamp, then removed Peter’s blindfold. The sudden bright light temporarily shocked Peter, and he turned his head away from it. When he turned back, he could see that she had removed the mirrored sunglasses. Her eyes were the most incredible brown he had ever seen. But there was something else there as well. . .a sadness?. . .fear? She looked away, the seductress gone, Maralisa back.

Avoiding his eyes, she slipped back into her roll as a temptress. Straddling his stomach once more she opened his jeans, peeling the corners back to expose his flat stomach. She blessed him with thousands of kisses between his navel and the elastic of his Calvin Klein briefs. One manicured finger traced a thin line beneath the waistband. He was no longer capable of conscious thought. He knew only that if he could not make love to her soon he would lose his mind.

"You know my secret. You must promise not to tell." she asked, demanding but pleading as well.

"What secret is that ?" Peter asked, suddenly confused. "I don’t even know you. How could I know your secret?" The desire he felt started to melt away into apprehension. Something was going on here, and he didn’t like the way things were turning.

"Don’t play with me!" she spat, suddenly angry "You know who I am. You’ve hounded me and haunted me for weeks. Everywhere I turn you’re there, accusing and telling me that you know. Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am!"

Peter shrank back from her fury. Fire danced in her eyes and a madness shined in her features. *Oh, shit! I knew this was too good to be true.* The only desire he had at that instant was to be free and somewhere else.

"But I don’t know you. You’re the one who has been following me. I never saw you before in my life." he tried reasoning with her, knowing somehow that he would fail.

"Liar!" she screamed and slapped him hard across the face. His cheek stung with the blow and he knew he was in deep trouble. "Liar! You were there at the hospital, lying on the gurney, all bloody and broken. You looked at me and saw my secret. You saw the blood. You saw him! You know."

"Know what? Saw who?" Peter pleaded for enlightenment. "What secret? Tell me what you want."

"I want peace. I want you to promise to keep my secret and to stop hounding me." her madness made her voice harsh and cutting. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head back painfully. Staring into his eyes, she saw the images replay there.

"I haven’t been hounding you. I don’t know who you think I am, but I am not the one that has been bothering you," he spoke through the pain. She released his hair and drew back. Rage clouded her face.

"Liar! " she screamed as she raked him with her fingernails and smashed her fists on his chest. " Liar!" Blood welled up from the scratches; red marks appeared where the blows struck. She placed her hands on his sides, just below the ribcage. Squeezing, she dug the claws in deeply, tearing his skin, pulling at the edge of the wound near his waist. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to pass out. He knew that if he did so, he would die. If he could only stay awake, he might be able to reason with her.

Her fists connected with his face, leaving him dazed. Again and again the woman-claws drew blood from his skin. Her fingernails dug deeply into the tightly streached skin of his neck as she grasped his throat, trying to make him take back his blasphemous lies. Bruises started to form before she let go to strike him again.

Hitting the tender area where the scar tissue was still angry red, Peter finally cried out in pain. The raging tirade instantly stopped. The woman stared down at the detective in horror, her hand over her mouth stifling a cry. For the first time she saw the damage that she had inflicted. Blood oozed from dozens of scratches and his throat looked as it it had been wrapped in barbed wire.

"Oh my God. What am I doing?" she cried, almost a whisper, then bolted from the bed, pausing only to grab her bag. Peter was still trying to regain his breath from the pain when he heard the front door close. *She’s gone. I’m safe.* he thought to himself, centering himself, getting the agony under control. His eyes flew open and another thought hit him. *How am I going to get out of these handcuffs?*

[end part 12]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 13- by shylo

Mara ran blindly from the apartment, not pausing even to grab her cape from the living room floor. She jabbed the button on the elevator but bolted down the hall to the exit sign above stairwell door before it could arrive. She hurled herself down the flights of stairs, not caring if her lungs burned and her legs ached. She had to get away from that room, from Peter, from herself.

*How could I do that,* she berated herself. *How could I hurt someone like that and cause him pain. I spent my whole life healing and trying to stop the hurt. Am I going crazy?* The question remained unanswered as she raced blindly into the night.

***

Peter had rubbed his wrists bloody trying to free himself. The iron frame of the bed did not give nor did the tempered steel cuffs. Only tender skin tore away and bones grated upon themselves. His shoulder was in agony from exertion and having his arm held at the angle it was cuffed. Sweat beaded on his face. At that moment, Peter wanted nothing more than release. . .from pain. . .from whatever demon had possessed that mystery woman. . .from those DAMNED HANDCUFFS! He laid back, staring at the ceiling.

"What in the Hell am I going to do?" he cried out to no one. He knew that his neighbors all worked nights. They were perfect in that respect. He could make all the noise he wanted, play his stereo as loud as he needed, crash around as much as he desired. It was a match made in Heaven, except for tonight.

"Calm down, Peter," he chided himself aloud. The sound of his own voice was somehow comforting. "You aren’t going to figure this thing out while you’re thrashing around."

Peter breathed as his father had taught him so many years ago in the temple. In through the nose, out through the mouth--slow and easy. His anxiety quieted somewhat and his mind cleared. The pain lessened to the point of tolerability. He craned his neck, searching the room for a way to free himself. On the nightstand he spotted it. . .the speakerphone. Recently purchased and newly installed, it stood as a ray of hope. He had chosen the big button model due to his clumsiness when awakened by middle-of-the-night phone calls. He almost laughed out loud, realizing that if it had not been for the Mystery Woman’s (he could no longer think of her as a Lady) phone call in the wee hours of the morning, he would have no hope for freedom.

He kicked his boots off and used the toes of his right foot to pull the sock off his left. Contorting his body to get nearer to the phone, he pulled his left leg up and over almost to shoulder height. It took two tries to knock the handset off the base, giving him a dial tone. The sweat glistened on his skin from the effort and muscles stretched beyond the call of duty. The pain that had been held at bay returned full force. His recently-healed right shoulder scolded him in the only way that it knew, with waves of agony. He gritted his teeth and ignored the fire in his shoulder. Twisting further he pressed the "O" button on the key pad with his big toe. Gasping as a cramped muscle forced him to straighten his leg, he grimaced then returned to his single-minded task.

Closer. . .closer. . .THERE! He managed to hit the speaker button in time to hear the operator say, ". . .body there?"

"Yes!" he nearly screamed, lying back on the bed. "Operator, I am physically disabled and need you to dial a number for me. Would you stay on the line until the party answers?"

"What number would you like to call?" the irritated voice blared over the speaker, sounding tinny and impersonal.

Praying that he was still at the precinct, Peter gave her Kermit’s office number. The phone rang three times as Peter’s heart pounded in his chest. He really didn’t want to ask for help, at least not this kind of help, from the ex-mercenary, but he had little choice in the matter. He could trust no one else with his humiliation.

"Griffin," Kermit’s tone was even more irritated than the operator.

"Please hold," the operator’s voice told him, lacking any emotion. "Sir, your party is on the line."

"Kermit?" Peter spoke loudly, not sure how well he could be heard. "I need your help."

"Yes?" Kermit’s answer was a question rather than agreement.

"I need you to come to my place, now. The door may be locked, so bring some of your "tools". I can’t explain now, I just need you as soon as you can get here." Peter’s voice sounded strained, even to him. "And Kermit, come alone."

"I’m on my way, kid, but this better be good," the man in green glasses growled. He hung up without saying goodbye.

"It is." Peter whispered to the dead line. "It is. . ."

****

The hours after Mara left Peter’s apartment were a blank. She had no idea where she had gone, or how long she had been there. She knew only that somehow she’d arrived in her building. She leaned against her apartment door as she fit the key in the lock, too exhausted to stand upright. Her mental fatigue was so intense that it drained any remaining physical energy from her. Inside, she stumbled to the bedroom, barely pausing to close the front door behind her. Without bothering to remove even her high-heeled shoes, she crawled into the waiting arms of her bed. Completely dressed, she pulled the comforter over her head, breathing a sigh of relief as the darkness held her close.

She did not sleep, but she was not awake. Her mind slipped into a state of near catatonia as her body curled into a fetal ball. It took almost more effort than she could muster just to breath. The only thought on her mind was the object deep within the confines of the bag she clutched tightly to her chest. The nurse could almost feel the coldness of the steel, the smoothness of the grip. Peter Caine’s "back up" gun from his nightstand nestled in its new home. It seemed to be her only hope of salvation.

[end part 13]

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PART 14

Kermit checked and rechecked his Desert Eagle in the elevator on the way up to Peter’s apartment. Something was definitely wrong. The kid’s voice had seemed strange, as though he was in pain. He wouldn’t have been so damned cryptic if he could have helped it. Peter always talked too much when he needed help. On the phone, he had acted like each word was a effort, like he could be cut off at any moment. The ex-mercenary could only assume that he was being held, that he couldn’t talk freely. He did come alone, though. If Peter was in trouble, he didn’t want to have his hands tied with a bunch of rules and regulations. No backup meant no witnesses.

Flat against the wall beside the door, he checked the knob and thanked whatever God would listen that he did not have to pick the lock. If there was someone in the apartment other than Peter, the less noise he made the better. Taking a deep breath and counting to three, he turned the handle and kicked in the door, following it a second later. He dived low, sweeping the room with both his eyes and his laser-sighted best friend. There was no one there. Only the glow of several dozen candles greeted him.

"Kermit, I’m in here." Peter’s voice sounded from the bedroom. A light from the bedside lamp showed the way. Kermit did not relax. He stayed low, pivoting on his feet, crouched down as he scanned the bedroom as well. Peter was on the bed, bathed in the eerie glow from the bedside light. He was alone. Upon closer inspection, Kermit saw that the younger detective was covered with blood and his arms were secured to the corners of the bed.

Assured that the apartment was indeed vacant with the exception of Peter and himself, Kermit holstered his greatest source of comfort and went to the man on the bed. Peter was dressed only his jeans and they were unfastened. His chest was bare, though the blood smeared on it formed a red vest.

"Kermit, get me out of these things.!" Peter called tightly. The pain in his shoulder was nearly unbearable, and his skin stung from the criss crossed series of scratches. The Woman in Red from the bar had clawed him deeply enough that he continued to ooze life fluid. The cuffs had cut into his wrists, and blood trickled down his arms as well. The bed looked like the site of a human sacrifice.

"How the Hell did this happen?" Kermit asked, checking Peter’s wrists to find them securely fastened to the metal frame of the bed. He pulled out a spare handcuff key, hoping that it would be a fit. Luck was with him as the lock released and Peter’s right arm was freed. The young cop grimaced, trying to move the arm down to a more comfortable position. The limb protested and would not respond. Kermit moved it gently to Peter’s chest. He reached over and repeated the procedure with the other hand. Blood from Peter’s damaged wrists intermingled with blood from his chest as he struggled to overcome the agony in his arms.

"I repeat, Peter, how the Hell did this happen?" Kermit persisted, aware that his friend had ignored the question. A red flush started at Peter’s cheeks and traveled the full length of his body. He opened his eyes, and his face displayed pain of a different sort.

"The Woman in the Red Dress from Chandler’s." he spoke, barely a whisper.

"What?!" Kermit nearly screamed. The man in green glasses rarely raised his voice. If he did, someone usually died. Peter wanted to crawl away and hide.

"The girl in the sunglasses. She was here tonight." was all he could say before the pain swept through him again and he curled up into a ball. His right shoulder was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it did not like the treatment it had received. The scar tissue was stretched and the muscles burned with a vengeance.

"We are gonna discuss this later, Peter Caine." Kermit promised. "First we have to get you to a doctor."

"No doctor." Peter protested through clenched teeth. "No police report!"

Kermit turned away from the young detective and silently shook for a moment, getting his fury under control. He didn’t know who he was angrier with, the young detective or the person who did this to him. He turned back.

"Okay, we’ll play it your way. No reports. I want to nail this woman, though, before she does something like this again." Kermit agreed. He helped Peter sit up in bed and scoot back against the headboard. "We better get those scratches cleaned up, though, before they get infected. Just what in the Hell were you thinking, Caine?"

Peter looked down, unable to meet his friend’s eyes, or sunglasses as was the case. He knew he had been foolish. It could have cost him his life. He firmly believed that it nearly had.

"Kermit, we have to find out who this woman is. Something about her isn’t right." Peter started.

"No kidding." Kermit commented sardonically, inspecting the deep scratches on his friend’s chest. A bruise was forming on the younger man’s cheek in the shape of a woman’s hand. She had hit Peter in the face hard. . .really hard.

"Help me into the bathroom, I am going to get cleaned up and then I need you to help me track this woman down. She didn’t use gloves so there should be plenty of fingerprints. The wineglass on the nightstand, the containers on the floor, all of those things should have her prints all over them." Peter told his friend, easing off the bed.

Kermit was concerned by how weak Peter seemed to be. It was as if each step took all of the energy he possessed. Emotional shock could be as bad as physical damage the older man realized. Thinking about how helpless Peter must have felt, he promised that the woman responsible would pay.

With Peter in the shower, cleaning off the blood, Kermit retrieved some zip lock baggies from the kitchen. He snapped on latex gloves he always carried and began gathering articles that might contain clues to the identity of the woman who had seduced then assaulted the detective. With thrumb and forefinger he cautiously picked up the satin and velvet cape. Holding it as though its lining was made of live cobras, Kermit inspected the article of clothing. It was new. If the cape had been wore before that night he wanted the number of the cleaners. The containers had been new as well. It almost appeared that the woman had carefully purchased each item with a specific purpose in mind. The man in green glasses could only guess what that purpose was. He didn’t like any of the options that popped into his rather fertile imagination.

Kermit had just finished gathering evidence when Peter stepped into the living room. He was dressed only in sweat pants. His chest bore the red trails where human claws had raked across skin. The younger man held his right arm tightly against his side and across his stomach. The stiff manner in which he moved suggested that his shoulder had not healed as much as they had all assumed.

Kermit pointed to the couch, helping his friend get settled.

"Now, Peter, tell me what happened. . .and don’t leave out anything. I don’t give a damn how embarrassing it is, it might help us find this bitch."

"Kermit, I don’t think that this woman is stable," Peter began. He told his grim-faced friend the entire story, starting with the parts that Kermit already knew and ending with dialing "O" with his big toe. Kermit listened without saying anything. He "hmmmmed" occasionally, especially when Peter told him that he thought his attacker was from the hospital.

"She said she saw you on a gurney?" he asked, his mind racing already mentally entering the searches he wanted to do with his computer.

"Yeah, that was really strange. She kept yelling that I knew her secret and that I was a liar when I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about," Peter said, confusion showing clearly on his face.

"You put some antibiotic ointment on those scratches, and get some rest. I am going to do some checking. I might be able to track down those prints sooner than you might expect." Kermit smiled, deep in thought. His smile lacked warmth. It held only a hint of danger and a promise of retribution.

Kermit let himself out of the apartment after he had Peter settled on the couch. The bed sheets were smeared with the young cop’s blood, and both men had too much on their minds to bother with changing them at the moment. Peter eased off into apparent sleep moments after his head touched the pillow as Kermit covered him with the comforter. Peter silently thanked him. Another moment from the otherworld that would not be remembered.

[end part 14]

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PART 15

"Did you find anything out?" Peter’s voice startled Kermit out of his trance. He had been starting at the screen of his computer since he had left Peter’s apartment early that morning. It had been more than 24 hours since he’d slept, and his normally sharp senses had failed to detect another person’s presence in the office.

"Oh yeah!," Kermit’s favorite saying came to his lips. He had indeed found out something. The owner of the prints was one Maralisa Jamisen, a nurse at the hospital where Peter had been taken after he was shot. He shared the information with Peter while he watched the younger detective. Peter seemed to be moving easier. Kermit, on the other hand, felt as if he had been shot, trussed up, and dropped in the hold of a Libyan freighter. The experience was not altogether foreign to him.

"Maralisa Jamisen, age 26. Father and mother divorced. One brother, died accidentally at the age of ten. Graduated high school and college with honors. BS in nursing. Passed her RN boards with high marks. No mention of marriage or divorce. Her address is less than five blocks from the hospital. She doesn’t even own a car. Doesn’t really look like she has a life outside of nursing."

"I ran her credit cards and checked her spending habits. Seems that she developed a taste for sexy clothes and kinky toys recently," Kermit continued. "She bought two pairs of handcuffs at that adult bookstore on Maple and made a large addition to her wardrobe from Victoria’s Secret in the mall in the last two weeks. Before that, about the only thing she used her card for was travel to trauma workshops. Her spending habits would make your father look like a shop-a-holic."

"Does she have a record?" Peter asked, looking over the file on the woman. Her hospital ID photo bore little resemblance to the woman with which he’d become enamored. Her hair was pulled back in a tight French braid, and she wore no makeup. The teasing, taunting, sensuous smile was nowhere in evidence.

"No. She didn’t even have a detention in school. . .ever!" Kermit removed his glasses. He looked at the floor while he massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to get rid of the lack-of-sleep headache that was centered there.

"Then why were her prints on file?" Peter asked, puzzled.

"They weren’t. Remember that homicide we had at the hospital last year? We printed the entire trauma room staff to see who pulled the plug on the protected witness?" Kermit began.

"Yeah," Peter said, thinking back a year or so, "but I thought those prints were never filed, since we found the killer. They were supposed to be destroyed."

"Well, all the other copies were," Kermit said with his enigmatic smile. "I guess I just forgot to delete them from my files."

"And just how many other prints that were supposed to be deleted are still on file?" Caine asked, not really sure he wanted to know.

"You don’t really want to know, do you, Peter." Kermit smiled even more. His smile disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared. "You know we have to go to the Captain with this one."

"Yeah," Peter reluctantly agreed. He hated the idea that his humiliation would become precinct gossip, but this woman could not be allowed to continue seducing and hurting men. Peter had no doubt that his life had been in jeopardy. The next man might not be so lucky. He stared down at the floor for a moment then looked back up at Kermit.

"One more thing, Kermit." he started reluctantly.

"What?" Kermit asked. By the look on Peter’s face, he was sure that he wasn’t going to like what the younger detective was about to say.

"She has my back-up gun. . .my other Beretta." Peter said simply. "When I was getting dressed to come in I reached in the nightstand to get it, and it was gone. It was there earlier in the evening. She must have gotten it when she set up the handcuffs."

"Jesus, kid, it just keeps getting better and better." Kermit growled.

***

An hour later, Kermit and an embarrassed Peter entered Karen Simm’s office. Peter wanted to crawl under the floor, but he showed no outward signs of it. He ignored the slight tug at the corner of the Captain’s mouth at the beginning of the story when he described the seduction. The hint of a smile disappeared as he continued the story of the woman’s sudden change. By the time the tale had been told, Simms was ready to boil the woman in oil. How dare that woman do anything like that to one of her detectives! She was on the phone for a moment then returned her attention to the pair in front of her.

"We will have a search warrant for her apartment here in four hours. Things are backed up a Judge Steven’s office. In the meantime, I suggest you two go to the hospital and interview her co-workers.

***

"Mara?" Dr. Dale Meeksa asked again, incredulously. "Mara Jamisen, 5’ 2", brown hair, lives-only-for-her-work Mara?"

Kermit and Peter had been talking to Mara’s coworkers for nearly an hour and a half. No one knew where she would go, or had any suggestion as to how to find her. They all told glowing stories about her work, but seemed to know nothing about her private life. The pair had saved Dr. Meeksa for last.

"Her prints gave a positive match, and the man involved positively confirmed that the woman in this picture was the one that assaulted him!" Kermit told the doctor, watching his silent friend squirm. Peter had not said a word during the interview. It was obvious that he wanted to be *anywhere* else at that moment.

"I can’t believe it. You say she seduced this man, handcuffed him to the bed, then beat and scratched him until he bled? What kind of idiot would let someone do that to them?" Dr. Meeksa asked, his usual tact displaying itself. Peter flushed bright red and found the floor suddenly very interesting.

"Me." he answered meekly. Dale suddenly *looked* at Peter, seeing the bruising and marks on his neck for the first time. Once again he berated himself for seeing only his patients. He knew that he tended to ignore the fact that the rest of the world existed.

"Christ, Caine, if it were anyone else on the face of the earth, I’d figure that they were lying. It would be just your luck,though. You’re sure it was Mara?" He asked sadly, talking around the foot in his mouth nicely.

"I’m sure," Peter replied reluctantly. The picture that these people painted of the Woman in the Red Dress was nothing like the person that had seduced him. *Why does it always have to be me?, he asked himself silently.

"Okay, let’s see the damage." Peter started to protest. Cutting him off, the doctor gently but firmly directed him to a curtain area and mimed unbuttoning a shirt. "Knowing you, you haven’t taken care of the scratches and they’re probably infected," the ER doctor sighed, his heart heavy. He had a feeling deep in his gut that something had been desperately wrong with Mara. He’d had that feeling for weeks, ever since. . .

. . . she’d passed out in the trauma room. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightening it hit him. The patient that had been on the table when she hit the floor had been none other than Peter Caine. He shared that bit of information with the two cops as he stared at the deep gouges on Peter’s chest. Whoever had left those marks was angry. Rough play rarely left such serious injury. Dale opted to treat Peter’s chest himself rather than have a nurse do it. There was no sense in feeding the hospital gossip mill. The nurses were already buzzing about the questions they had been asked. Two cops looking for Mara as a suspect in an assault, "sexual in nature", paired with the claw marks on Detective Caine’s chest, would whip the rumor mongers into a feeding frenzy. He cared too much for his "lion tamer" to have her dragged through that muck heap. He only hoped that they missed the marks on the detective’s necks as he had. He realized that chances of that were not good, however.

"Caine, Griffin," Dr. Meeksa spoke to the detectives as he dressed the scratches. "One more thing about Mara. Something is definitely wrong. You have to find her before things get anymore out of control. I can’t go into details, but I think she has been drinking a lot. I have never seen her so. . .so. . .*out of it*. . . as she was right before she left. I should have picked up on it sooner. Maybe I’d still have a nurse, and you’d have one less assault case to handle." There was a deep regret in his voice.

"Stay out of my trauma room, Detective Caine," the doctor called after Peter as he and Kermit left. His tone was light and joking, but there was a hopeful undercurrent in his voice as well.

[end part 15]

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IN HIS EYES- PART 16

Peter and Kermit returned to the precinct to be greeted by Captain

Simms. She bore the search warrant for Mara’s apartment, along with an

arrest warrant and a statement ready for Peter’s signature. Peter

looked at the paper in his hand and suddenly had mixed feelings. When

he and Kermit had started on this search, right after he had been freed

from the cuffs, all he wanted was to arrest the woman responsible. Now,

after talking to Mara’s coworkers, he wasn’t so sure. She sounded like

a troubled woman who had lost it under stress. The most disturbing

thing about the whole situation was that he appeared to be her only

victim. She seemed to have reacted badly to him from the moment he came

into the trauma center, bleeding and shocky. What was it about him that

had driven her over the edge? Why did she believe that he knew some

horrible secret about her? All these thoughts and more ran through his

mind as the two detectives stood in Kermit’s office.

Kermit’s fingers were running at light speed over the keyboard of his

computer. He did not share any of the data he gathered, nor did he

offer a hint into the type of queries that he was initiating. He

occasionally glanced up at his partner in this case, seeing the

confusion and pain written on the man’s handsome face. *Oh Lord,* he

thought to himself,*the kid’s going to manage to make this all his

fault.* He didn’t know how right he was.

"Kermit?," Peter asked tentatively. "What would it hurt if I just

dropped the charges?"

"What in the Hell are you talking about?" Kermit ‘s voice barely rose

above a whisper. His quiet tone was filled with a promise of bodily

harm that only *he* could carry off.

"I mean, she hasn’t hurt anyone else. She seems to be obsessed with me

for some reason. If I just leave her alone, nothing more is going to

happen. Why should we arrest her. She needs a psychologist and maybe

Betty Ford, not jail."

"Listen to yourself, kid. ‘She seems to be obsessed with me. . .’"

Kermit quoted his younger friend. His patience was wearing thin. Peter

could make the famine in India sound like his fault. "Obsessed people

are unstable people. If we don’t get her off the street, she may not

settle for just roughing you up the next time. She may pick someone

else to obsess on. He may not be as lucky as you were. Look, Peter, I

agree that she needs help, but we have to bring her in before we can

stop her."

"It’s just that. . .well, it’s that she sounds like a good person. Her

coworkers have nothing bad to say about her. Her supervisor says that

she just worked herself into exhaustion. If I press charges, she will

lose her nursing license. It would be like me losing my badge," Peter

commented, still staring at the pieces of paper in his hands.

"Peter, let’s just bring her in and then decide, okay? Remember, she’s

got your gun. Good people don’t play with guns," Kermit said tightly.

This wacko woman had injured his friend, and worse, had played with his

head. It didn’t matter to him if she had just cause, or if she was

emotionally disturbed. No one hurt one of Kermit’s few friends, no one!

Peter nodded silently, realizing in his heart that it was necessary. He

would never know what he had done to trigger this woman’s madness unless

he saw her again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that outside the

safety of his job. She had instilled a tiny seed of fear in his soul,

one that grew and tore at his very core. The helplessness he had felt,

handcuffed to that bed was something that he never wanted to experience

again. Analyzing his own motives carefully, he realized that at least a

part of his reluctance to prosecute this woman was his fear of coming

into contact with her. He signed the statement.

***

It was nearly an hour later when the pair entered Mara’s apartment

building. Stopping at the superintendent’s door, they flashed their

badges, showed the search warrant, and obtained a key to her third floor

apartment. Neither spoke in the elevator on the way up. As they neared

the door, Peter reached for Kermit’s arm to stop him. The former

killer-of-men whirled instinctively and slammed Peter against the wall,

instantly regretting his action. The look of pain on his partner’s face

said that he had taken one too many blows in the last few days. Kermit

released him immediately.

"What?!" the man in green glasses demanded.

"She’s in there," Peter said simply. There was tension in his voice.

At that moment, Kermit hated the woman for what she had done to his

friend. He had seen Peter face down five men with knifes and clubs

without batting an eye. There was no such bravado on his features at

that moment. Fear peeked from hazel eyes--more than fear, humiliation.

The woman had taken away his self-confidence, had made him feel totally

out of control.

"How do you know? Have you been taking lessons from the Ancient again?"

Kermit asked lightly, trying to ease the anxiety he could see that his

partner felt.

"I know," Peter said, forcing himself to breath deeply. . . to center

himself. Perspiration started to bead on his face. "I can feel her

near me. I can feel her insanity. It’s different than when she had me.

. .when I was. . . at my place." Peter struggled with the words.

"Different how?" Kermit asked. He had given up long ago trying to

figure out the kid or his father and all the mystic mumbo-jumbo that

surrounded them. He didn’t believe it, but he knew it to be real. If

the kid said that he could feel her, she was there.

"More intense, more scared. She’s even wilder than she was," Peter

started to explain. "I think she is on the razor’s edge."

Kermit and Peter had arrived at the apartment with 305 on the door,

Mara’s apartment. The ex-mercenary examined his fellow detective

carefully. *Is he ready for this?* A strange calmness had settled on

Peter’s features, as if he suddenly understood what he had to do.

Kermit relaxed a bit, and exhaled the breath he didn’t know he’d been

holding. *Maybe all that mystic stuff isn’t so bad after all,* he

thought as he made a fist to knock on the door.

"Police, Ms. Jamisen, open up," he called out. There was no answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. Again there was no answer. He felt

for the comfortable grip of his laser-sighted Desert Eagle. Holding it

ready, he watched Peter draw his weapon as well. Making eye contact,

Peter nodded to Kermit and took his position as the mercenary-in-black

inserted the key and unlocked the door. He turned the nob, then kicked

the door inward.

Peter went low and Kermit went high, diving into the room as a single

unit. The duo moved as if they were pairs skaters at the Olympics,

every motion choreographed and perfectly timed. Both swept the room

with their eyes and their weapons.

Finding nothing, they split up and began a search of the apartment.

Kermit was just entering the bathroom when he heard Peter’s call from

the other side of the apartment, where another door led to a bedroom.

"Kermit, she’s in here." Peter was flattened against the wall just

outside the door. He looked inside the room and caught sight of

something in the corner.

[end part 16]

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IN HIS EYES-PART 17

Huddled with her back to the wall, looking like a trapped animal, Mara clutched Peter’s Beretta with both hands. She held on to it tightly as if she were clutching a lifeline. The steel felt cool and comforting as the barrel rested against her throat, the muzzle barely touching her chin. Peter could see her as he peered into the semi-dark room. Her hair was tangled and wild, looking like it hadn’t been combed in days. She still wore the same clothes she had on when she left Peter’s apartment, right down to the high-heeled shoes. With the light from a single lamp as the only source of illumination, the detective could see the mascara and makeup had flowed with tears down her face.

The beautiful seductress was now a tortured being, grasping the only reality in her life . . . Peter’s gun.

"Maralisa?" Peter asked, hoping that the use of her name would spark some clear thought. He holstered his own gun and stepped from behind the wall into full view. Kermit grabbed for his arm to pull him back to safety but Peter dodged his grasp.

"You !" she spat out in anger. The muzzle of the gun left her chin and pointed accusingly at Peter. He suddenly felt naked, standing in the open with no cover. He held his non-threatening stance, however. He kept his hands at waist level and slightly out , palms up, open to her as if asking her to come into his arms.

"You know my secret. You looked into my eyes and saw him. . . saw us. . . saw everything." Her eyes flashed at him. "You ruined my life. I need to keep helping them but you won’t let me. I kept the secret all these years. No one knew, no one but you. Why did he tell you?"

When she finished speaking, her eyes lost their fury and grew distant, haunted. The gun was once again redirected. She stroked the underside of her chin with the barrel, almost sensuously. The front sights left a faint trail along her skin where it touched. Bending her head forward slightly, she kissed the muzzle of the Beretta lovingly. The seductress that had trapped Peter on the bed was still present. She no longer concentrated her efforts on mere man though. Her ministrations were focused on the gun, the object that could bring peace to her world. She touched the weapon to her temple as a lover would, using it to push back a stray lock of hair. Peter stared at her, mesmerized by her performance.

"We could still play the game, Peter. Anything that I have could be yours. I would do whatever you wanted, make your wildest fantasies come true," she purred. The smile that had nearly cost Peter his life played on her lips. Mara’s double fisted grip never loosened, however, and her index fingers overlapped inside the trigger guard. It was as if she believed that activating the device would take all of her strength. "All you have to do is keep my secret."

"I don’t know your secret, Mara." Peter knew he was tempting fate with his last remark. Denying knowledge of her secret had cost him a lot of pain and not a small quantity of blood already.

"Isn’t there anything I can do to convince you not to tell?" Her voice had changed. She no longer tempted and seduced. . .she pleaded. Dispair replaced the seductive smile on her face.

Closing her eyes, almost appearing to nod off, she moved the gun again. Holding the barrel of the gun against her face, the butt pointed outward, she moved the Beretta’s angry mouth up to her left eye and pressed it inward just below the brow. The angle guaranteed that most of her brain matter would be destroyed should she fire the weapon.

Peter took advantage of her closed eyes and took a tentative step forward.

"Don’t" she commanded, almost pleading, her eyes snapping open as she leveled the firearm at the young detective. "Don’t come closer. I need to think. I need to sort this out in my mind." The seductress was gone; the fury had fled as well. All that was left was pain and fatigue. The exhaustion, both physical and mental, echoed in her voice. Her words became almost a whisper, as if the effort of speaking was too much. The lightening-fast switches in personality had Peter’s head swimming. One moment he could clearly see the Lady in the Red Dress . . . making love to a gun. . . taunting him. . .teasing him. The next second the nurse that was horrified at her own actions was back, in so much pain that she contemplated taking her own life.

"Maralisa, you don’t have to do this." Peter’s voice was gentle, pleading. It tore his soul open to see this woman in such agony, to know that in her mind he was a part of the reason for the pain. "We can get you help."

He saw the red dot on her forehead and knew that his fellow detective had the Desert Eagle trained on the woman. He stepped between Kermit and the woman. He could almost feel the laser sight burn a hole through him for an instant, then he heard Kermit curse. He couldn’t let his friend kill this maddened woman to protect him. The woman didn’t seem to notice his actions, or the words of the frustrated man acting as Peter’s backup.

"You don’t understand. You can’t help me. It’s too late," a small child wail sounded from the woman. "They won’t let me in the trauma room ever again if they know my secret. If I can’t pay for letting him die what good am I? If I kill you so you won’t tell, the doctors will let me help the people. . . but I can’t hurt some one else, either . I can’t take a life to keep a secret. I spent my whole life trying to make up for not being able to save him. Killing you would just make what I did worse. Why did he have to tell you?"

"Who, Mara?" Peter used the nickname the doctor gave him. "Who didn’t you save? Who told me something?" Her litany had made no sense whatsoever. He had to find out what was torturing her mind and heart if he was going to stop this mess.

"My brother! Jerry! " she screamed amid tears, as if he should know. "You saw it in my eyes. You know the whole thing. He had to tell someone so he told you, through my eyes.

I tried, I really did. You saw that. I know you did. I saw the reflection of it in your eyes. I saw the whole thing playing out just like a movie. I couldn’t get the blood to stop. We didn’t mean for the gun to go off. Dad told us not to play with it. He told us.. but no, we had to look at it. Jerry said that he knew how to use it. . . knew what he was doing. He was ten, Dad had let him shoot the gun. He said he knew!!"

Peter listened in horror as the tale spilled forth from the anguished woman. Two small children. . . a gun. . . an accident. The hurt and the remorse bubbled forth as the picture that was painted in blood on Mara’s psyche revealed itself. --

. . .a brave, scared nine year old girl trying to stop the bleeding as life slipped away from her precious older brother.

. . .a nightmare buried deep within a young nurse who was trying to atone for a sin committed long ago.

. . .the weight of the guilt dragging her down, deeper and deeper into depression.

. . .a cop, covered in blood, with the eyes of her brother, seeming to know her secret.

. . .the knowledge that once her secret were revealed, no one would let her make up for her terrible misdeed ever again.

One last time Mara changed the direction in which the gun was pointed. She drew it closer, barrel rested against the side of her face, butt outward.The sights made tiny indentations in her skin. The muzzle pointed slightly inward to her temple. There was a look of utter madness in her eyes. Kermit would later describe it as an "enraged-lioness-caught-in-the-headlights" look. Even though she stared, eyes unfocused, at Peter, it was obvious that she did not realize he was still there. She was confessing her sins to her brother. She no longer spoke to the detective that had lain bleeding in her trauma room, or the man that stood in front of her. Both ceased to exist. The only reality she recognized was the pain and torture she had endured because she was not able to keep her brother alive. It was a pain that she felt she could no longer tolerate.

Peter saw the tightening of her fingers on the trigger. He gauged the distance between them and launched himself at her, praying that she would not turn the gun on him once more. His prayers were answered as he struck her body opposite the gun side. The blow forced her hands, the gun still firmly clutched in them, away from her face. A deafening roar filled the room as the Beretta spoke. . . its mission unfulfilled.

Peter pinned Mara to the floor, the gun trapped in her hands, trapped in his hands. Kermit rushed to the pair and snatched the weapon from the heap of humanity. All the fight went out of Mara the moment she had pulled the trigger. In her mind, she was already dead. Making the effort. . . to move. . . to think. . . to remain conscious was suddenly too much for her. She went limp beneath Peter. Her eyes remained open, but her soul shut down. He released her hands as soon as Kermit had the Beretta firmly in his possession. Pushing himself up off the unmoving woman he sat a moment, his back against the nearby bed with his eyes closed. He conjured up the image of his father at the temple. *Breathe, son. In through the nose. . . out through the mouth. Calm your chi. Center yourself.* The image quieted him. He regained control and opened his eyes. Kermit was kneeling close, about to touch the young man.

Seeing Peter return to him, the detective withdrew, reaching instead for the woman on the floor with Peter. The unshakable man in sunglasses shook slightly as he checked the catatonic form on the floor. It had been another close call for Peter and good friends were hard to come by.

"Call it in and have them send an ambulance."Peter spoke wearily. Kermit nodded, unsure enough of his voice that he was unwilling to risk it in front of his friend. He did not want to blow his image as the unflappable, seen-it-all man of danger. He pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket and pushed the necessary buttons.

"Operator?, This is Detective Kermit Griffin, 101st precinct. I need an ambulance. . ." he began, his voice showing no hint of the emotions coursing through him.

[end part 17]

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PART 18--CONCLUSION

Maralisa lay in the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She had not blinked in several minutes. Peter stared at the shell of the beautiful woman through the glass of the two way mirror and felt a sharp stab of guilt twist at his gut. So much pain. . .so much hurt. She had spent her whole life trying to make up for an accident.

Kermit had somehow obtained the police report of the shooting that had happened all those years ago. Peter had not even asked how. Upon reading the detective-in-charge’s narrative and the statements of the parents, Peter knew without a doubt that the unfortunate incident had not even been Mara’s fault. Jerry’s prints were the only ones found on the gun; blood splatter pattern suggested that Mara had been at least 3 feet away when the gun went off. He shook his head, wondering about the young woman who assumed guilt for something that she did not do. How could she blame herself?

"She is in a state of catatonia," a voice sounded over Peter’s right shoulder. He whirled to face the speaker, suprised by the undetected presence. Kermit was about 5 feet away. "Between the shock, the alcohol withdrawl, and the suicide attempt, her mind went into sensory overload and turned itself off. The doctors say she is showing some signs of recovery. When she first came in, she didn’t even respond to pain stimuli. She is doing that now." Kermit had removed his glasses. Concern showed in his eyes.

Peter stared at the man in black, a million thoughts running through his mind. Turning back to the two way mirror observation window, he spoke. He did not want the eye contact his friend was making with him, nor did he enjoy the feeling of being evaluated.

"Was there anything that I could have done. . .could still do. . .to help her?" he asked.

"Forgive yourself." the Kermit said simply. Peter turned again, opening his mouth to speak but could not get the words to come out.

"What happened to Maralisa Jamisen happened more than 15 years ago. You did not do this to her, but you are taking the blame for it as usual. If you can’t forgive yourself for something that was not your fault, you are looking at *your* future." The man in green glasses’ words were harsh, but they were meant to be. He had seen the guilt in the young cop’s eyes, read the self-loathing in Peter’s body language. He had seen that look too many times before.

Detective Griffin pushed psychological buttons on the man in front of him, watching his reaction closely.

"Her demons are her own. Let her heal and deal with them. Taking her burden won’t help her, it’ll only weaken you." the Kermit spoke soothingly, spreading verbal sauve on the emotional wounds he had opened.

"Come on, Kid." the ex-mercenary turned brother-protector placed a gentle hand on Peter’s back, urging his away from the woman’s room. "Let’s go home. Crime waits for no one, and we’ve got to get you back to the streets.

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